


Ikizukuri

by phisen, TenchiKai



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Hannibal Fusion, Hannibal Universe, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2018-11-22 08:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11376888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phisen/pseuds/phisen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenchiKai/pseuds/TenchiKai
Summary: “Doctor Nikiforov? What’s so funny?” The gaunt woman stopped the fork from entering her mouth.“Oh, nothing, signora. I just remembered that something amusing happened when I got the liver.”





	1. Prologue : Apéritif

**Author's Note:**

> (phisen)  
> Let's go a little bit darker.
> 
> (TenchiKai)  
> This time, I apologize for nothing. This is gonna be fun.

When she woke up that morning, it started like any other. She had her breakfast, consisting of focaccia and tea, like she always did. She had her breakfast, outside in the garden underneath the canopies, like she always did. She had her breakfast, tormented by the memories and the thoughts of the man still inside the house, like she always did. She had her breakfast, not knowing that she would be the sole heir to her family’s wealth and fortune by lunchtime. That revelation came later, when she was standing in her bedroom in the family mansion, somewhere in the Italian countryside.

After finishing her meal, she entered the house. It was sad in a way, walking up those few marble steps into the main hall. She’d done it many times, but today, surrounded by beauty but not being able to appreciate it, it became jarringly real. It had been like that, the beauty lost and gone forever, ever since she turned seven. That’s when the young, lively, dark haired Sara Crispino realised that there was evil in the world, and sadly, closer than she could ever imagined it to be. 

She scoffed when the memory, now slightly blurry and not as emotionally impairing as before, repeated itself before her inner eye. It rarely did that these days, repeated itself that is, but when it did, she couldn’t help herself feeling infuriated. 

 

 _‘Sara, want to see something fun?’_  

 _‘What, Mickey?’_  

 _‘Come, it’s in my room!’_  

 

She cursed under her breath when the memory became clearer. _That fucking asshole._  

Walking past his old room, now used as a study and god knows what else, made her hatred for her now departed parents flare up with an alarming intensity. They’d left everything to him. That perverted, sad excuse of a brother. That brother, who had another life entirely just because of him being two minutes older. That brother, who’d been pampered and put on a pedestal since he burst out of their mother and never learned to take responsibility for his actions. That brother, that incestuous, demented pedophile that continued to wreak havoc wherever he went. Much like the plague. Yes, that was a good likeness, but somewhat lacking. The plague was eradicated. He was not. 

She entered her room, strategically placed in the right wing of the mansion. From that room, she had an overview of the estate if she walked out on the balcony, there were no stairs that slowed her down if she would use the second exit. She felt safe in that room. Or, safer, at least. Too bad that she’d only been brave enough to move up a floor and into that particular room maybe six months ago. But, it was better late than never, and truth be told, she probably wouldn’t have considered the thought if not for her therapist suggesting it to her. 

 

‘ _So, Sara. What’s good about the room on the upper floor?’_  

 _‘He’s never been in there, I guess.’_  

 _‘He’s never been in there?’_  

 _‘No. Not since he got caught there onc… no, twice I think. First, as a boy. He was cutting the puppy up. Dad was annoyed.’_  

 _‘Annoyed?’_  

 _‘Yes, imagine that. Annoyed. The puppy didn’t look much like a puppy when dad came in. Then, the second time. He was twenty-two, maybe? That’s when that settlement came about, you know? When he’d abused that boy.’_  

 _‘He was caught that time, you say?’_  

 _‘Yes. It was merely a nuisance to Dad. He had wanted to use that money for the wineyard.’_  

 _‘That didn’t stop him?’_  

 _‘Nothing ever does.’_  

 _‘So, he stays clear of that room because ofㅡ’_  

 _‘I’m sorry for interrupting you, Doctor, but yes. He has bad memories of that room. What do I know, but I think that room makes him realise that he’s human. And a pathetic one, at that.’_  

 _‘Sounds like a perfect opportunity to rid yourself of him.’_  

 _‘I… I couldn’t have said it better myself.’_  

 

She walked into her bathroom and turned on the shower. Feeling the silk bathrobe caress her skin as it pooled onto the floor, made her feel disgusted. A lot of things made her feel that way, most of them attributed to touching. She didn’t like having people close, she never had. Not since she was seven years old. 

That was one of the reasons for her parents giving everything to him, she figured. They realised that she wouldn’t let someone in, she wouldn’t grace them with grandchildren, she would never rise above what her brother put her through. Or, as her parents called it ‘she would always be a person stuck in the past, so why let her govern the future of their wealth’. 

The water cascading down her back, enveloping her face with its warm wetness was also a touch. No matter what, she could never feel clean. He’d made sure of that. Feeling her own hands on her, lathering herself up, was also attributed to him. He’d made sure that she would think of him, no matter what she did to herself. All conditioned by countless repetitions, countless of foul words spoken into her ear, countless of touches both inside and out, licks, bites, slaps and everything in between. 

She decided to go out for a ride. Maybe it was stupid to shower before being with the horses, but she didn’t care. She picked out a pair of olive coloured riding breeches, she had too many to count, and found a white blouse. She zipped up her riding boots and quickly gathered her hair into a messy bun before giving herself a brief look in the mirror. 

She liked to look pretty. Being well put together was the only time she could at least pretend that she was something else. Something more. Something untainted. Also, being with the horses made her feel something even more important. She could feel loved and give love in return. For once. 

She decided to go down the exit that would lead to the main hall. It was probably too early for him to be awake anyway, and even if they would run into each other, it wouldn’t matter. Not today, since she had decided to spend most of the day riding anyway. He hated the horses, and that said much. They were good judges of character. 

The stables were located on the estate, maybe a ten minute walk across the courtyard, through the eastern part of the orchards and past the south-eastern part of the wineyard. Her mother had been interested in horses, and she had adopted that interest almost immediately after being introduced to the creatures. Being with them quickly gave her solace, a safe harbor from the world outside that she’d been taught to be cruel and unforgiving. 

Approaching the stable, she knew instantly that something was wrong. She felt it, it was as if the air was charged with something thick. Despair, angst and pain, blended together in an abhorrent mess that only grew with every step she took, intensifying by the second. 

“Amadeo, what’s wrong?” She called out to one of the stablehands as she got closer. 

“Miss Crispino! Please, don’t… don’t go inside!” 

Seeing the stablehand keel over and vomit, releasing a never ending stream of something chunky and beige on the white gravel, should have made her feel cold and incapacitated. Instead, she became hot and full of resolve. 

“Luciano,” she yelled, still not inside the stable, “get me the bolt pistol.” She turned to the kneeling stablehand next to her. “Which one is it? Amadeo, which horse?!” 

“I-it’s Solare. Miss, don’t… don’t go inside…” His voice was low, vibrating in a way that made her think that he was freezing, although she knew it was out of shock. 

She didn’t listen, she disregarded his warning and stepped inside. Without a word, she was handed the gun. She tried to get the old man to look at her, but he kept his eyes on the floor, taking his cap of in the process. 

“You need to hurry, Miss. We couldn’t get close, he’s dangerous now.” 

“What happened?” She asked, although she knew. _So it has come to this? You sick monster, you disgusting motherfucker._  

“Hurry, Miss. It’s inhumane.” 

“Bring a knife.” With those words, she left him standing there, while she ventured on. To the third stall on the left, the one with the creaky door and the metal bars in front just to keep the workers safe. To the stall that kept her golden stallion, her prized possession. 

When she approached, he had his rear towards the door. From that angle, everything looked like it always did, apart from him sweating, apart from him quaking, apart from the smell of iron, apart from the sticky thickness that radiated from him. 

“Sol? I’m coming in.” She readied the gun, pulled back the hammer and walked in an arch to get to the horse’s head. 

She wasn’t really sure what to expect, but she noticed the left front leg first. The way it was angled and almost turned half a rotation with the toe of the hoof pointing backwards. Secondly, she noticed the abdomen, how a part of the small intestine looked like a slippery ribbon, tumbling down into the straw. Almost coling like a snake. 

The leather halter was drenched in sweat when she grabbed it, slick to the touch, but the stallion made no efforts to get away. His eyes were empty, consumed by the pain and the impending blood loss. She kissed the golden muzzle and got a deep sigh in return. To her, it was like he knew. She was going to be his goddess of death, make him end his suffering. 

“I’m so sorry. Solare, I’m sorry.” She stepped away, just enough for her to reach the stallion’s head with the gun, and pulled the trigger. 

The horse fell down into the straw with a thud, not even twitching as he hit the ground. She joined him on the ground, hearing his bladder empty itself as she sat there and stroked his head. She felt her eyes tearing up, not for her own sake but for the stallion that was no more. He’d done nothing wrong, and now, he’d paid the price. 

“Luciano?” She didn’t even bother to look over her shoulder to see if he was there, she sensed that he was. “Can you cut him? I need to have a talk with my brother.” 

 

**~**~**

 

She walked hurriedly back to the mansion, undoing her hair as she got closer. She didn’t think, it seemed like her thoughts were inaccessible to her, racing and creating a murmur she recognised from before. The murmur that took over every time she’d ever been wronged by him. She had never listened so intently as she did at that moment, walking up the marble stairs, opening the main door, entering the main hall. 

“Michele!” Her voice echoed as it spread itself out, bouncing off of statues, paintings and walls in an endless loop. “Michele, I need to speak to you!” 

She decided to look for him. She started on the bottom floor, with his room, her old room, the sitting room, the recreation room, the library, the kitchen and the dining hall. He was nowhere to be found. She walked upstairs, started with the left wing of the house. She looked through numerous of guest rooms, bathrooms. She opened her father’s old study, her mother’s old bedroom, her own old ballet studio. No brother. 

She knew where he was. Deep down inside, she knew, but she needed to make sure by searching for him in the same was he’d been searching for her. Always finding her, always making her fear his footsteps that had grown so familiar. 

He wasn’t in his old room, which didn’t come as a surprise to her. She knew him well. All too well. She knew that he was on a personal quest now, he wanted to hurt her, make her suffer. And, it seemed like he’d finally understood that anything he did to her directly had lost its novelty a long time ago. That was why they were standing at the precipice now. Her hand on the door handle and him… yes, she was wondering what she would come across in there, in the room she thought she’d been safer in. She steeled herself, and opened the door. 

Of course. Of course he was in her bed, on his back sprawled out like he wanted to claim her own private space, masturbating. It didn’t come as a surprise that he’d left one of her underwear drawers open either. She couldn’t see from where she was standing, but she knew he was using whatever garment he’d taken to make himself reach his climax. He’d done that before and left his mark on them before putting them back. Strange, how she thought of it to be normal. 

What wasn’t normal, though, was the tuft of white mane he had in his other hand, placed over his nose. She noticed it as she got a little closer, making sure not to make that much noise. But she wanted to. She wanted to tear down everything around him, she wanted him to cease his existence. 

His trousers and his underwear were on the floor, close to the bed. She reached down and picked the trousers up, pulling the leather belt out of the loops. She wrapped it around her hand, the sensation of the cool leather making her even more determined. 

“Dear sister,” he panted once he noticed that she was there, “how has your morning been?” 

“Eventful,” she replied. Not letting her anger and disgust colour her voice. She wanted to take him by surprise. Just like he had done when he’d attacked her horse. 

His eyes had a strange purple tint to them in the morning light, his hair was messy and was stuck to his forehead. It was apparent that he tried to make her uncomfortable by looking at her, demanding eye contact when he was using her panties as some kind of totem, wrapped around his erection. 

“Anything special you’d like to tal- ah, ngh!” 

She knew he wasn’t done. He was either trying to make her come closer or trying to make her even more uncomfortable. She presumed it was a little bit of both. He didn’t succeed. Not today. 

When he noticed that she weren’t coming any closer, he chuckled. “I got some hair from him, you know.” 

“I see that.” 

“Why, Sara? Why do you enjoy riding him? Why do you seek the company of beasts when you know that they can’t give you anything than a platonic experience?” 

“You’re sick, Michele.” 

“He’s not a problem anymore, though. If I can’t have you the way I want to, then…” He seemed to be getting close, moving his hand more purposefully and more intensively while sniffing the mane. “No one is allowed to have you, you hear me! Mom and dad seemed to think the same!” 

“Finish up and get out of my bed.” 

“Tell me, sister. My dear little sister. What did you feel like when you saw him?” His breathing was ragged, continuously interrupted by lewd little whines of pleasure. 

“I felt sorry for him. He was in a lot of pain.” 

“What did you do? Tell me, you whore, what did you do?!” 

“I did what was necessary.” 

“Tell me! Tell me what you did when you, ah, when you saw…” 

She wondered what would be easier. Let him hear what he wanted or just wait until he was done. Out of some strange sisterly love, she decided to humor him. She’d decided that it would be the last act of benevolence she would ever show him. 

“I shot him. I took the bolt gun and I shot him, Mickey.” 

“Yo-you’re such a goo-good, ah, such a good girl!” 

She watched, albeit calmly although she felt like throwing up. Watched as her older brother, born two minutes before her, got up on his knees and ejaculated on her sheets. 

The window of opportunity was open. As her brother slithered down on his stomach, she walked over to her, now defiled, bed and pulled his arms towards his back, pressing down at the small of his back with her knee to get some more leverage. 

“Mmm, Sara…” He cooed out of appreciation, even more so when his joints cracked a little. 

Somehow, she managed to secure his arms behind his back with the belt, wrapping it above his elbows and tightening it with a crude knot. He was pliant, and she couldn’t help but to think that he was probably expecting something else from their interaction, something else completely than what she had in mind. Being twins, being somewhat in sync at times, he wasn’t shy to tell her what he was hoping for. 

“I knew you would. I just knew it,” he mumbled into the duvet. “You have longed for it, haven’t you?” 

She said nothing, leaning to reach the nightstand. The drawer opened itself with a little creak that made her freeze. She wanted it to be a surprise. Her brother didn’t react, though, he was too busy with himself. With the revolting results of his pleasure. 

Before turning him over, she grabbed the tuft of mane from his hand. She couldn’t help but wonder how he’d managed to pull it. She figured that he’d done it after the horse had been mauled. That sounded more like her brother, doing despicable things but still being a coward. She put the sweaty ball of white strands underneath her blouse, inside her bra. That felt empowering, like the horse acted as her own totem, a spirit animal of strength and resolve. Somehow, it felt strangely fitting that they, she and Solare, would be doing this together. 

She turned her brother around. Normally, she would have felt disgusted by the thought of willingly touching him, but now, she could feel excited. Her heart started to beat. Harder. Faster. Making sure that blood would soak her muscles, making them ready. Mentally, she knew she was. She was getting closer experiencing her only fantasy, like the dark corridor she’d been walking down for the last thirty-something years finally let in some light at the end of it. She wanted to know what it would feel like, to step out into that light. If it would make her feel warm? At ease? Overjoyed? There was no need to delay. 

She placed herself on top of him, on his thighs. He opened his eyes slowly, smiling when he saw her. 

“Don’t you want to sit higher up? It’s much more satisfying,” her brother crooned. 

Without a word, she grabbed him. It was the first time she’d willingly taken his sex in her hand, the first time she realised that it was just as pathetic as him. She started to stroke him, not looking at it but feeling the reaction her hands coaxed out of him. He started to swell, become rigid. 

“Sara… oh, my sweet little sister… mom and dad would be so proud.” 

“Close your eyes, Mickey. You’re in for a surprise.” She was a little disappointed that she sounded so matter-of-factly. She hoped that he wouldn’t catch on. 

He didn’t. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back and parted his lips. And again, out of some distorted sisterly love, she let him have a few seconds of ecstasy. 

“Does it feel good, Mickey? Huh? What my hands are doing to you?” 

“Mo-more, Sara!” 

“You’ll get more. You’ll get more, big brother.” She leaned back, felt around with her hand on the mattress until she reached underneath that pillow. “Are you ready, Mickey?” 

“Yo-you love me, right? Sara? You love me? I’m more than just your brother?” 

“Yes, yes you are.” Her hands tightened. One, around her brother and one underneath the pillow. “You’re my worst fucking nightmare!” 

With a swift move, she brought the knife out. She had thought that cutting his penis off would be challenging, that the knife would meet resistance and that she would have a moment of hesitation but she was surprised. It was easy, pressing the blade through his skin, through the tissue, through the artery but also actually _doing it_ felt unbelievably uncomplicated. 

He screamed. His voice was full of pain and fear, deafening and shrill, and it felt strange to her when she realised that he wasn’t only voicing his own desperation, but also hers. The tone carried all of the hurt she’d ever felt, all of the humiliation she’d ever experienced, all of the hopes and dreams she had for her life to be normal. In that moment, she felt thankful, indebted to him that he used the voice she never had to her disposal. 

As soon as the blood started to paint her apricot coloured bed linens, she got off him. She realised that he needed to be restrained, both his body and his voice needed to be controlled. She ran into her bathroom, found that silk bathrobe still on the floor and ripped the sash off of it. Having her brother’s screams in her ears, made her act fast and purposefully. 

She made a loop, one that would tighten if being tugged and fought with his thrashing legs before she managed to snare him. With what was left of the sash, she pulled as hard as she could to make his legs bend at the knees, and fastened the end of the sash around the leather belt constricting his arms. He looked like a _gamberetto_ , being tied up like that. Being smeared with blood that just kept on squirting out of him. 

When the initial shock wore off and he started to feel pain and not much else, he became vocal. What he said wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before, though. How worthless she was, how disgusting she was, how unloved she was by their parents. As always, the harsh words got exchanged after a while, with him saying how much he loved her, how much he needed her, how no other woman ever could take her place. Oddly enough, hearing the words of endearment were more hurtful, more disturbing, more uncomfortable to her than the derogatory things he said before. She decided that it was enough. 

She found his severed member on the floor. Looking at it, it seemed pathetic. To think that it had managed to do her so much harm, it being a tool of dominance while attached to him. Now, it was a bloody and disgusting piece of flesh. Nothing more, nothing less. She squatted and picked it up, feeling somewhat amazed over the fact that the monkey had lost its razor. She was the one holding it now, but the blade was dull and fear was the last thing she could think of feeling. 

She walked over to her brother, who was still sputtering words ranging from hate and disgust to love and reverence. She put her hand on his cheek, and he got quiet by the touch. 

“No more talking, Mickey.” She pressed his cheeks as hard as she could, forcing him to open his mouth. “It’s done. You’re done. We’re done.” She put the penis in his mouth, tried to press it as far down his throat as she possibly could. 

He started to gag. 

“Brother, remember what _nonna_ said? She said ‘treat others in the same way you want to be treated by them’. This is all on you.” She gave him a little peck on the cheek as she prepared to turn around. “ _Addio, fratello maggiore.”_

 

**~**~**

 

She walked back to the stables. The commotion was no more, the strange feeling she had when she’d arrived earlier that morning was gone. The stablehands had done what was expected of them, she noticed. The horses were turned out, the mucking of the stalls were done, and… no, he was still there. 

She opened the door, that creaky door attached to the third stall on the left. The door with the metal bars. 

He looked peaceful, she thought. She walked in and placed herself next to him. She noticed that Luciano had done a good job, cleaning up around the horse, exchanging the straw and piling it up around him so that his injuries were hidden. He probably knew that she would return and sit with him for a while, keeping him company. 

She took her phone out from the pocket of her breeches. She scrolled down, looking for a specific number in her contact list. This was going to be the last time she ever called that number. She knew that much. 

She was disappointed that she reached his voicemail. She wanted to hear him, that calm voice that had pulled her through so many times before. That voice with a small, indistinct accent. That voice that made all the difference. 

“Hello, Doctor? It’s me. I… I don’t know what to say, but I killed him. I killed him, I think. I would like to talk to you, but…” She sighed. “I want to thank you for helping me, for being my therapist. I only wish that you could have helped my brother in the same way you helped me. I-I guess this is farewell, then? Thank you, Doctor. Goodbye.”

* * *

 

Appreciative noises filled up the dining room as the cloche was removed. The small gathering, a total of five people, all Italian socialites, knew that they were in for an experience. 

“This,” the host and cook explained, “is _fegato alla Veniziana_ on a bed of _risotto_. I chose _Barbaresco_ to drink, it goes well together with the liver. Please.” He stretched out his hand, asking wordlessly for the guests’ plates. 

“Doctor,” a woman in her late fifties said as she adjusted her necklace, “Massimo told me that you’re extremely peculiar with the produce. That you do extensive research to find out how the animal has been brought up, what it was fed?” 

“Certainly, I take great pride in the small details.” 

The guests started to laugh appreciatively. 

“Care to indulge us,” a well-dressed man with a dubious haircut asked with a wink. 

“Andrea, of course. This… calf, he was brought up in the countryside around Naples. According to what I’ve been told, he was roaming free. Left to his own devices right up until slaughter. He’s been taken care of, being fed nothing but the best grain and hay. I do think,” the host and cook said thoughtfully whilst tapping his lips with a finger, “that he’s been offered Marsala regularly. Offering the animal wine does wonders for the taste. As you will be aware of in a minute.” 

The guests chuckled, and plates got passed around in a steady pace until everyone had received a small marvel in front of them. It was a beautiful dish, meticulously plated, a feast for the eyes. 

“And with that,” the host and cook said, “enjoy.” He sat himself down and observed as his guests cut small pieces of liver, piercing it with their forks and made the risotto accompany it into their mouths. When the sighs of pleasure spread out between the guests, he had his first bite. It wasn’t too bad, actually. The flavors were full and the creaminess of the risotto rounded off the taste of the liver perfectly. 

“It’s divine!” 

“You’ve never planned to start a restaurant, Doctor? This is better than the _Osteria Francescana!_ ”

“Oh, you humble me, _signore_. You’re too kind.” The host and cook chuckled. “If I was to become a cook, what would happen to my patients? Surely, it’s a different calling, but more important than the need to fill one’s belly.” He paused, just for the dramatic effect. “But not by much.” 

The guests laughed appreciatively. 

“Doctor, I know of the doctor-patient confidentiality, but I read about the Crispino case...” 

“Yes,” the host and cook said, swallowing his food and reaching for the thick napkin placed on his lap. He patted the corners of his mouth before continuing. “I can’t say anything else than what you’ve already read in the papers, sadly. A very disturbing case, indeed. Twins having a sexual relationship until it became known to others outside of the family. The sister couldn’t deal with the disgrace, so she killed her brother and seemingly killed herself too.” 

“Is it true what the papers claim, that she called you after she did it?” 

“Why, yes. She called and confessed, she left me a message on my voicemail.” He sighed. “We had a good relationship, Miss Crispino and I. I still feel bad about not answering the phone when she called, maybe she could still be alive.” 

“Dreadful.” 

“Imagine! Such behavior within one of the most illustrious families in the country!” 

The guests started to talk amongst each other, keeping their voices low. Stray words were heard, most of them conveying the unbelievability of the situation. 

The conversation strayed eventually, began to circle around more pleasant topics instead. Like, how the newly restored Caravaggio were to be unveiled in the _Palazzo Barberini_ in Rome. 

“I’m thinking of going,” the man called Andrea said, “it’s a wonderful opportunity.” 

“Yes, it is! But can you imagine,” the woman with the necklace interjected, “that a man from _Japan_ has been working on the painting? I wonder how that will turn out! I heard that he’s not even forty and he’s already made a name for himself in his country. But in all do respect, and I do think that you all agree, working with Japanese calligraphy or wood paintings cannot be compared to working with the Italian masters!” 

The crowd seemed divided on the question, and they seemed to agree to disagree after a small debate. 

“How about you, Doctor? You’re very interested in the arts?” 

The cook and host reached for his glass of wine. He swirled the wine in the glass before smelling it, and ended the procedure with taking a small sip. “Oh, I am. Very much so. I think I might go to Rome. As you say, it’s a rare opportunity. Which Caravaggio is it?” 

“I think it’s _Judith beheading Holofernes_.” 

“You don’t say. That is a powerful piece. Colour me intere _ㅡ_ ” 

“One thing that I find so remarkable,” a gaunt lady interrupted, changing the topic out of the blue, “is that the Crispino-woman got rid of the brother’s body! True, such acts of horror makes one wonder if they are suited to be put in holy ground to start with, but still. The distant relatives are entitled to some peace, are they not?” She made the sign of the cross to emphasise her notion. 

The host and cook frowned. It was just a twitch, too brief for anyone to notice. Inside, he felt a consuming annoyance. The audacity and rudeness of that woman! She was never to be invited again. Not as a guest, anyway. 

The gaunt lady continued. “Wonder what she did with it?” 

A smile spread out on the face of the host and cook. He didn’t even bother to hide it. 

“Doctor Nikiforov? What’s so funny?” The gaunt woman stopped the fork from entering her mouth. 

“Oh, nothing, _signora._ I just remembered that something amusing happened when I got the liver.”


	2. Testa in cassetta

The night was warm when he got off the train at Roma Termini. He removed his coat almost immediately. He was a bit too hot already and walking to Palazzo Barberini and _Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica_ housed within it, would take twenty minutes if he kept a good pace. He knew the way after numerous visits, with the first one happening when he was a little over twelve years old. Strange, how he always seemed to return to Italy ever since. Or, maybe it wasn’t that odd. Italy had always agreed with him, and he, like a moth to a flame kept seeking out all of that he felt was missing. He stayed in short bursts in the cradle of civilisation, enjoying the history, the culture and the cuisine until he was content, sated and full. But always, with caution. Losing Italy would mean losing so much more than the history, the culture and the cuisine.  

He started his journey, walked down Via Marsala and headed for Largo Giovanni Montemartini. He stifled the impulse to loosen his tie, feeling a bit flushed and slightly uncomfortable because of it. He realised that if he was going to continue to walk, he would probably be too warm and sweaty once he arrived and that, he wouldn’t accept. It wasn’t how he wanted to portray himself. He took great pride in being well put together, leaving nothing to chance. 

He waved down a taxi and exhaled a little when he sat down in the climate controlled space. _Much better._  

“ _Dove?”_ The taxi driver was a burly man, not someone who cared for pleasantries apparently. That was the downside of meeting people, of certain trades. They rarely met his standards. 

“ _Palazzo Barberini, per favore,”_ he replied, taken aback by the fact that the taxi smelled of cigarettes, a menthol kind at that, and a sour stench of sweat mixed with cheap cologne. He pondered about opening the window, because no matter how hard he wanted to, he couldn’t hold his breath for seven minutes. He finally decided, with a disgruntled sigh, to endure. He pulled out a handkerchief and was discreetly covering his nose with it, settling in the airy smell of lilacs instead. 

The driver, on the other hand, seemed annoyed to get a customer that apparently was too important to walk, and didn’t do much to hide the fact that the seven minute ride was a waste of his time. Constantly sighing, clearing his throat and fiddling with his phone whenever the chance presented itself. 

When the taxi pulled up, he exited with a ‘ _grazie mille_ ’, although that was very generous. Too generous even, but bad manners was something he just couldn’t stand. He walked through the gates and up to the palazzo, experiencing the exact same feeling as last time he was there. Architecture, art and classical music all had the same impact on him, no matter how many times he heard something or saw something or opened his mind up to something. He was awestruck and a bit excited. His pulse became more intense, creating a tapping sensation in his temples when he approached the entrance of the palazzo, walking past the impressive fountain in front. It was… yes, almost sexual. 

Of course, he was on time. A bit early too, but that was how he liked it. Being early gave him an excellent opportunity to observe, and that was something he was exceptional at. He couldn’t wait to see who he would experience. If he would come across anyone _interesting._  

He walked inside, knowing that he would stand with his head tilted back not before long. And that, he did, with his eyes firmly attached to the ceiling of the grand salon, getting lost in the masterpiece painted by Cortona. It never ceased to amaze him, that fresco. He felt a sudden sting of jealousy. Commissioning something like that, something just like _Allegory of Divine Providence and Barberini Power_ , would make a person seem grandiose, gaudy and narcissistic these days. In days of old, during the Renaissance and the Baroque, anyone of dignity did illustrate their standing with art, though. Without so much as thinking twice about it. 

He sighed as he lowered his head. Contemporary art still had a lot to prove, and studying the ceiling only strengthened that notion. 

He followed the murmurs, all in _sotto voce_ , further in, until he reached the hall where a few people had gathered already, standing close to a large painting covered with a white cloth. The reveal would be somewhat dramatic, it seemed, which he found amusing. Caravaggio’s rendition of Judith beheading the Assyrian general was an exquisite painting, he’d seen it once before, or rather, the second version of it that was found in France a few years back. But it wasn’t worthy of such a dramatic reveal. 

Although Caravaggio had a wonderful way of rendering light and facial expressions, he liked Gentileschi’s version better. It wasn’t as refined, not as _perfetto_ , but it had more life to it. More drama. More raw emotion. Caravaggio’s Judith seemed a little too calculated and steeled and her aging maid wasn’t really adding to anything with her presence, at least that was how he remembered it. 

When he got closer to the painting, he was greeted with a warm smile by curator of d’Arte Antica. They had met a few times over the years, he was a pleasant man and probably past his retirement with a decade or so. Always mild and calm, always impeccably dressed and, he was a walking encyclopedia when it came to Italian painters. Not surprising since it was his profession, but he always had something new and interesting to tell whenever they met. They shook hands and exchanged a few words in between them before he was offered a glass of champagne. 

“I’m so pleased you could come, Doctor. It warms my heart that Caravaggio still captures you. Like he should.” 

“This is undoubtedly an opportunity I wouldn’t want to miss. So,” he continued, “are we going to meet the conservator today?” 

“Ah… I, uh… Come, Doctor, let’s stand over here.” The curator walked a couple of paces away from the growing crowd. “You see, _signore_ Katsuki is… Well, he doesn’t… He said that he was going to try to attend, but, and this is just between you and me, I have a feeling that I will have to present the painting once it’s unveiled.” 

“Oh?” He found the curator’s words _extremely_ interesting. 

“Yes. I’m terribly sorry. It’s unfortunate, and a bit embarrassing to be honest.” 

“Have you seen the painting? Does _he_ have anything to be embarrassed about?” 

“No, not at all. The painting is exquisite. He was paying the painting a great deal of respect, showed it a great amount of love. An unending reverence. He was meticulous, Doctor, but somehow, he doesn’t seem to trust his abilities.” 

“He’s humble. That’s a very rare trait these days.” 

“Very. You understand what I mean, don’t you, Doctor?” 

“I do. I shouldn’t keep you, people are gathering. It would be rude of me to claim you to myself.” He extended his hand and it was taken immediately. 

“Always a pleasure.” 

“Likewise.” 

His eyes followed the curator as he disappeared into the crowd, interacting with the steady stream of people coming into the hall. He decided to do the same, in order to get closer to the painting but also, to observe. Not only it, but everything and specifically, everyone else. 

Uttering ‘ _le chiedo perdono_ ’ time and time again got him closer to the painting. He decided to stand a little to the side, being across the room from the entrance of the hall and somewhat undisturbed. It was a perfect vantage point, serving his purpose well. In all honesty, he wanted to see the reactions of the crowd before the actual painting. It had taken him a few days after his last dinner gathering to understand that the emotions ran high and the respect ran low when the presumptuous social elite discussed the painting. Or rather, _who_ was responsible for the painting reappearing after months and months of being tended to. 

He could understand the absence of the conservator. This _signore_ Katsuki. One flawed brushstroke, one tint or tone being barely off, one proportion being wrong in creating the oil’s translucency and it wouldn’t only be Holofernes’ head on the chopping block. Although, him not being there said much about him. He was a person who chose to stay unaware of what would make him grow and mature, no doubt afraid of criticism. He was a person who had problems in trusting, not only in himself but also in others. He was a person who had met resistance, met unrighteousness and tried to protect himself from it ever happening again. 

“ _Signore e signori!_ May I have your attention, please?” The curator’s voice boomed, filling up the room with no effort at all. “We are all here today to witness the unveiling of one of our true national treasures. It’s a rendition of female cunning and guile, and not to forget the unbreakable spirit of a woman doing, and accomplishing, what mortal men could not.”  

The doctor smiled. _Maybe, just maybe this elusive signore Katsuki was afraid of praise?_  

“Judith saved her village by enticing, ensnaring and encapturing Holofernes, the Assyrian general. Throughout history, she has travelled and taken many forms. From being desexualised and fair to becoming an able seductress and threat to masculinity… yes, she has grown, she evolved from a lamb to a lion. That is what Caravaggio saw when he painted this masterpiece, and that is what Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica still is trying to convey.” 

 _Maybe he thought he wasn’t worth standing in the spotlight, receiving what was rightfully his?_  

“Without further ado, please let me present to you Caravaggio’s _Giuditta e Oloferne_. Now restored to its former beauty by our conservator, who sadly couldn’t attend this unveiling.”  

 _Maybe he was_ _ㅡ_  

The doctor heard the, somewhat muffled, sound of cloth falling to the floor. 

 _Perfect._  

 

**~**~**

 

When the painting was revealed, his eyes weren’t on it. Nor were they on the crowd. They were stuck to a figure, a figure that was trying desperately to remain anonymous and unnoticed but in doing so, stood out like a dash of colour in something monochrome. The figure, barely even standing in the same room as the whispering crowd, had one foot on either side of the doorway. It was telling. He, for it was a he, was being curious but at the same time, apprehensive. 

Little by little, the curiosity in the figure across the room seemed to wane. In its wake, it left a fidgety and uncomfortable person behind that, surprisingly enough, stepped inside the hall but remained pressed close against the wall. He was trying, that was obvious, although everything about him said that he wanted nothing else than to leave. How he was looking at everything else than people and mostly, his own shoes. In just a couple of minutes, he thought he saw him, this odd little bird, reach for at least six champagne glasses, downing them without hesitation. Not that he was really counting. 

When the crowd started to scatter, when it started to study the other paintings hanging in the hall, he started to not only observe the little amusement, he started to really see him. His hair was black, like a mop of coarse strings acting as a shield to the outside world, with strands obscuring his eyes. His glasses, with thick rims obscuring his face in specific angles, were slightly askew and he kept on pushing them up on the bridge of his nose in regular intervals. He hadn’t bothered to pick his best suit, either. The sleeves were too long, covering the cuffs of his shirt and the suit wasn’t tailored, leaving his rather slender frame with a blocky appearance. The colour of the fabric was wrong against his complexion, it made him look pale which was quite a feat considering he was Asian. And the neck tie… it was ghastly. 

 _The conservator! Clear axis I. Anxiety? Yes, without a doubt._  

He saw the conservator inch closer to the painting. It was as if he was trying to portray himself as someone else, trying to convince not only the other guests but also, himself of the fact. Like he was a visitor, one of many sheep in the flock and not one of the reasons for all of them actually being there. Again, he failed miserably. He was trying too much. When the curator spotted him, probably without any difficulties whatsoever since the conservator was sticking out like a sore thumb due to both looks and behaviour, they had a short verbal exchange and he was left alone with a small pat on the shoulder. Probably the only thing that could act as something calming and confidence-boosting at the same time. It didn’t seem like the pat did what it was supposed to, though. 

The conservator started to look at the painting when he was left alone. Or, more like scrutinising it that looking at it appreciatively, leaning in and seemingly trying to see as many details as he could. He wasn’t pleased with his work, that was obvious. 

He decided to take a closer look. At the painting and at the conservator. He put his champagne glass on a tray carried by a woman, she was clearly stressed, and helped himself to a second one. He stood a couple of paces in front of painting to get the full experience before coming closer, standing next to him but at a comfortable distance. 

“ _You’ve done a marvellous job_.” He said it in Italian. Said it with his most authoritative voice, seeing the conservator flinch in the corner of his eye.  

“I-I’m sorry?” The conservator answered in English, his hands firmly gripping yet another champagne glass and his eyes still firmly attached on the painting. 

“Forgive me,” he said, changing the language to English as he turned to face him. “You’re the conservator, I presume? I said that you’ve done a marvellous job with this.” 

He received nothing in return. Not a look, not a bodily reaction to what had been said, not even a shift or a fidget. It seemed like he really was a sheep standing still, hoping that the threat would disappear on its own accord if he just pretended that it wasn’t there? 

“This is hard for you.” He saw the conservator swallow before he adjusted his glasses again. He continued in the same matter of factly-sounding voice he used in his sessions. “You’re anxious. You are wondering if you did the right choice by coming here today. Consciously, you know that you had to, but unconsciously… it’s those thoughts that command you right now. You’re afraid. You’re hating yourself. You’re seeing every small mistake you’ve done on this painting, praying that no-one else will ever notice. You’re thinking that you wasted a confidence you were given. That you’re worthless.” 

He got a fraction of a second’s worth of eye contact. It was enough. He was right. He always was. 

“Deep down inside, though, the only thing you want right now, the only thing you _desperately need_ but at the same time realise won’t do any difference to what you think about yourself, is for someone to acknowledge you and your work with _Giuditta e Oloferne._ And, that I did.” He took a sip of champagne and returned to studying the painting. “It’s fantastic. You excelled. But hearing me say it doesn’t matter to you because I’m a stranger, we don’t have an… emotional connection. You want to hear it from someone that matters. To you.” 

“Have…” The conservator’s voice was like a whisper. Like he was about to say something in confidence, although nothing about him seemed to have anything to do with confidence. Quite the opposite, in fact. “Have we met? Mister…?” 

“ _Doctor_. I’m Doctor Nikiforov. And no, we have not. You are Katsuki?”  

“Yes. Katsuki. Uh, Yuuri,” the conservator said, raking his fingers through his hair. Pulling away the curtain of black strands from his eyes before it fell back into place, exactly in the same spot as before. 

They stood side by side. Silent they were, with nothing but the muted murmur of the other visitors swirling around them. The silence they shared got interrupted on occasion by people getting in between them, people who didn’t seem to understand who they were openly sharing their views about, albeit amongst themselves. 

“I really didn’t feel like coming here today,” Yuuri said, luckily not understanding the remarks being said about him from an arm’s length away, “but I did. I stood outside for a long time, wondering if I should go in. When I got in, I had to push myself further. It felt like I was approaching something daunting. I stood in the doorway for quite some time, feeling like _ㅡ_ ” 

“A lamb about to get slaughtered?” _What a lovely allegory._  

“Yes.” Yuuri looked up at the painting, towards the pained, and somewhat surprised expression of Holofernes. “I thought working with this painting would make me find something else. Some peace of mind.” 

“You’re feeling a bit like him. Enticed by opportunity but caught by surprise. And now, you’re bleeding out.” 

“You’re… very observant, Doctor. You seem to understand people well.” 

He glanced a little to his side, caught the eyes of this bleeding lamb. He was looking at him now, surprisingly enough, with eyes he’d seen countless of times before in countless of others. Eyes asking for only one thing, the one thing he would never be able to offer. Not explicitly. 

“It’s my trade,” he said calmly. Trying to piece the small bits of information he had about this conservator, this Yuuri Katsuki, together. Feeling amused by what he had found, understanding that there was much more to him than met the eye. 

He continued, veering into another topic. “Yuuri, I can call you Yuuri, I hope? What is art to you?” 

“Everything.” The answer came without hesitation. It felt sincere, the little tilt of his head, it being slanted slightly upwards was a strong affirmation. 

“Everything? Still, this isn’t something you can enjoy,” he nodded at the painting, “because you had a part in it. Like it’s been _ㅡ_ ” 

“Tainted. Tainted by me.” 

He let it pass, the fact that he’d been interrupted. To him, that came across as an interesting choice of words. Extremely interesting, even. The reasons for using them were unknown, but still very revealing. 

“Can you still see its beauty? Although it’s been bettered by your hand?” 

“I… I’m not sure. No. No, I don’t think I can.” 

“Thank you, that’s being honest. I appreciate that. When I look at a painting, I like to close my eyes. That way, I can feel it inside me, not having to rely on the visual connotations. Have you done that before?” 

“No, I… I have to keep my eyes open.” 

He stifled a chuckle. He was thoroughly amused by this lost little lamb. “If I told you to close your eyes… would you?” 

Instead of answering in words, the slightly intoxicated conservator did so in action. 

“So, what I want you to do is to breathe. Concentrate on your breathing, the sound of my voice. Have you noticed that I’ve slowed it down?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good. That is because I want you to listen. Really listen. That won’t be a problem, will it?” 

“No. I hear you.” 

“Good. That’s good, Yuuri. Imagine that you’re on top of a staircase. That’s not hard to do. Look down for me. What do you see?” 

“It coils. It continues.” 

“You see it coil, it continues. I want you to imagine that it’s dark. It makes it easier for you to focus. Can you do that, Yuuri?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good. You’re standing on top of the staircase. It’s light where you are, but down below, it’s dark. You can’t see where it ends. What are your feelings looking down?” 

“I… don’t want to go down there, I think.” 

“Try. Take the first step. Tell me when you’ve done it.” 

“I’ve done it.” 

“Good. How does that make you feel?” 

“Nervous. A little.” 

“I see. Try to take a couple more. And a couple more. How does that make you feel?” 

“Still nervous.” 

“Start walking now, Yuuri. Walk down that staircase. Tell me when it’s completely dark around you. Tell me when the light has been blacked out by what’s down below. Tell me when you’re enveloped by this darkness.” 

“Now.” 

“It’s completely dark around you now, Yuuri?” 

“Yes.” 

“How does it feel?” 

“I’m starting to feel… I’m scared, I think.” 

“How does it _feel?_ ” 

“I… My heart is racing. I feel like I-I’m out of breath. I shake. Yes, I shake on the inside.” 

“Can you go further down?” 

“I don’t think I want to.” 

“What you seek is down there. The beauty you can’t appreciate. The beauty that is yours.” 

“The beauty that is… my design.” 

“Yes, that’s right. Walk a bit further down, Yuuri. It’s not far now.” 

He studied him. The internal reactions were slowly breaking the surface. He’d been truthful when he said that his pulse was elevated, that his breathing was strained. That he was trembling. It became more and more apparent, that he was not only pliant and susceptible. He was indeed… perfect. 

“ _Doctor Nikiforov_?”  

Hearing his name being called by the curator made him decide to cut it short. He leaned in, deciding that what he said next was for the conservator’s ears only. 

“Yuuri? You don’t have to walk back up. You can stay where you are. You can open your eyes momentarily, I will tell you when. This wasn’t too strange for you, was it?” 

He wasn’t graced with a reply. Instead, he saw how the tell-tale signs of anxiety were bubbling up, taking over. 

When the, now empty, glass of champagne started to tumble from the trembling hands of the conservator, he was quick to catch it before it would make contact on the floor and shatter. He had been treated with enough allegories for one evening. 

“Now, you can open your eyes Yuuri.” In another voice, one not as slow and suggesting, he continued. “I think you’ve had too much too drink.” 

“ _Doctor_?” The curator came up to him with a strained smile on his face when he overheard the comment. He was tactful as always, making sure that he understood that he wanted the conversation to take place in Italian.  

“ _Signore Katsuki has allowed himself to be taken by the drinks he took, I figure. Don’t worry, Silvano, it was interesting and highly rewarding despite the fact. I leave him in your care. Make sure he gets home alright. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to such a talent._ ” He smiled, one of those smiles he knew to be totally disarming. 

“ _I will, Doctor. I’m sorry, this is… embarrassing.”_  

 _“No, it’s been a delight. Truly.”_ He put a hand on the shoulder of the still shaking conservator before he continued. “Yuuri, thank you for your insight. Art brings people together, and I hope our paths will cross again. One way or another. Goodnight. Yuuri, Silvano.” 

He nodded to the two men before turning around and heading for the exit. He couldn’t keep himself from smiling. Yes, the evening had been a delight. In more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caravaggio's [_Judith beheading Holofernes_](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b2/Caravaggio_Judith_Beheading_Holofernes.jpg/1200px-Caravaggio_Judith_Beheading_Holofernes.jpg).


	3. Sanguinaccio dolce

Sometimes, if you listen closely, you can hear your innermost being speak to you. That little voice inside yourself can tell you a lot of things. That you should be vigilant, that you should take care of yourself, that you should maybe reconsider doing what you first set out to do. For most people, it never happens that the voice gets any recognition. Because most people, they carry on with their lives without being in-tune and paying themselves much attention because feelings are bothersome. For some people, it happens rarely but when it does, they tend to stop and think for a second. Because for some people, the notion of being yourself the closest is important and when you speak, you listen. 

For Yuri Plisetsky, it was different. It had become common with that gnawing feeling, that voice inside being persistent. It had become so common that he’d started to push it away, it didn’t fit his grand scheme of things. At first, he actually didn’t mind it much. That little, seemingly insignificant voice telling him that something was going on that he should probably pay attention to. He shook it off, decided it was his life getting the best of him. The voice was easy to disregard, easier to rationalise. Hell, not being able to sleep due to stress at work, feeling agitated that his relationship had started to bleed out, annoyed about being close to turning thirty… He had a lot on his mind, a whole lot of things that seemed much more important to sort out and think about than an obscure little voice, a whispering feeling. And that was why he didn’t listen. Which, in retrospect, he probably should’ve before it was too late. Things would have worked out for the better if he had.

Later, when the breaking point was approaching, or upon him more like, he would curse himself. Curse himself for not doing what his grandfather always told him to do. ‘ _ Listen to your gut, Yurochka. If it whispers, you eat. If it speaks, you listen. If it screams, you run.’  _

 

**~**~**

  
He’d been trying his best to minimise the hours he spent at home for something close to three weeks. Being at home meant unnecessary fighting, irrevocable words being uttered, and more often than not culminating with someone sleeping on the sofa. He had a feeling that it was his turn tonight, while standing in the shower at the gym with shampoo in his hair.

“Fuck you, Beka,” he cursed under his breath, tilting his head backwards to give the water a chance of taking his building annoyance, and the shampoo, with it as it flowed down his face. He stood like that for a while, not really surprised that his mood didn’t change, before he put his hands in his hair to get the remaining lather out.

“You look great.”

He scoffed and glanced to his right where the voice originated from. He saw the back of a man, shorter than him by almost a head. He couldn’t make out any characteristics, other than that he was slender, had black hair and an accent he couldn’t really place. He decided to just ignore that asshole.  _ Seriously, picking guys up at the gym. It’s so 2010. _

In a smooth move, he grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his waist before heading out to the locker room, taking his shampoo and body wash with him. He was quick to unlock his locker, deciding not to stick around. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting the shower creep a second time.

He gathered up his blond hair and tied it back before rummaging around in his bag for new underwear and the clothes he’d wore at work, not really caring that the t-shirt was on backwards after he’d gotten dressed. He just wanted to get out of there and… no, he wasn’t really eager to get home, but in all honesty, it was better than being ogled at by some idiot if he had to choose a lesser evil.

After zipping up his bag and throwing it over his shoulder, he fought to get his slightly damp feet into his sneakers, buttoning his jeans at the same time. He threw one last look inside the locker to see if he’d forgotten anything, and headed off after grabbing his keys.

Their flat was just a fifteen minute walk away from the gym. It had felt like a blessing at first, not having to spend much time on transit to get home and see him after a long day, but now, it felt more like a bother. He wasn’t looking forward to the ordinary routine they shared these days, and getting home quickly made them ease into it even quicker.

It never failed, their tattered routine. It usually started civil but ended up being something crude by the end of the night. Sometimes, just a look would set them off. Sometimes, it took a little more work. That was why he’d started to keep his distance, feeling somewhat annoyed that his boundaries had been breached on occasion. He’d seen him walk past the gym one evening, probably when he was on his way to work. That was not a part of the deal, not according to him anyway. It was as if they were trespassing on each other’s property constantly these days, just to see what would happen.

_ Yes, what the fuck happened, really? _

Rounding a street corner, knowing that it wasn’t much more than ten minutes left to his walk, he felt it. That little gnawing feeling a person can get when being watched. He heard that little voice too, the one that originated from his stomach, telling him to be ready. He would have disregarded the cues this time too, if only he hadn’t experienced something like this earlier during the day. It was as if something inside him had been nagging for too long without feeling satisfied seeing that he was, indeed, alone. More often than not, the voice got drowned in the murmur of everyday life but in that moment, it felt extremely persistent.

Just for the sake of it, he shot a quick glance over his shoulder.  _ Nothing _ . The only difference was that the feeling accompanied by the voice inside wouldn’t subside this time. They prodded, poked and stabbed. His mind fought them, though. It wanted to convince his body that it was okay. That is was no-one there, that it was him being sleep deprived, irritated and stressed.

He took out his phone from the pocket of his jeans, just to calm himself. Or, he didn’t really see it as an effort to calm himself, more like rerouting his thoughts, making him focus on something else than his vivid imagination. But he couldn’t help the sensation of his heart beating faster, his eyes hyperfocusing and entering some kind of tunnel vision. His body was telling him a lot of things, but he disregarded them. Or, wasn’t quick enough to realise that he unconsciously was keeping an eye out for himself.

To him, at least consciously, it was strange that his thumb hovered over his boyfriend’s number. But somehow, that was the number his body and unconscious mind had decided on calling. Again, he was missing the cues, his being trying to take care of all of that he refused to acknowledge.

He wasn’t surprised that he ended up listening to his voicemail. Like so many times before.

_ ‘This is Beka. You know what to do.’ _

“Beka, it’s me.” He paused. “I-uh, I’m maybe five minutes away from home, I left the gym. Are you there? Mind picking up? Don’t be an ass, I wouldn’t call you if it wasn’t impor _ ㅡ _ ”

The blow across the back of his head made him cry out before he dropped the phone. Before he dropped to his knees and smacked his forehead on the pavement.

His stomach was screaming out, as loud as it possibly could, while his mind sighed.  _ Deda, help me. _   
  


**~**~**

 

Arms were around his neck, forcefully pulling him into an alleyway. He felt disoriented, almost drifting in and out of consciousness with every breath he tried to force down his lungs. He felt a pain, an immense pain originating from the back of his head that made him feel sick. It throbbed, making the blow at the back of his head feel like it was doing encores. Maybe that was why he kept blacking out and coming back? Yes, that was probably it, he saw a pattern somehow. When his eyes started to lose focus, when the darkness crept up and consumed his field of vision only to be interrupted by a strange confetti of light, he noticed that it was due to pain that he grew limp for a few seconds before finding some tonus in his muscles.

He heard a muffled noise as he tried to focus anew, determined to fight the pain and the flicker his mind reacted with as it was building.

“...hit you… ‘ve answered!”

“Wh-what? What?” He didn’t understand, it felt as if words had lost their meaning no matter how hard he concentrated.

“I didn’t want to hit you, I said! You should have answered me! I only gave you a compliment!”

His mind started to scramble. Was he responsible for this attack somehow? By not answering? To what? When? Why? It didn’t make any sense to him, what he heard being screamed into his ear. His annoyance grew and through gritted teeth, he hissed. “Let me go, what the fuck are you talking about?!”

“I tried to be nice to you, I tried to appreciate you!”

“Wh _ ㅡ” _

“Your body’s like a…  work of art! I… I want it, I want to feel it! Let me have it!”

The combined effect of a warm and wet breath against his cheek and the words slowly finding their way into his mind, still struggling to remain conscious, made him realise that this wasn’t a joke or a game. It was real, so intensely real that he understood that he had two choices. He could allow his body get the best of him, succumb to the pain and the unconsciousness and not live to see another day or he could fight. Fight in order to get home, fight in order to see his boyfriend, fight to feel the love and comfort of his…  _ deda! _ He couldn’t give in, what would happen with his grandfather if he did?

He started to struggle. He tried to make himself as heavy as he could while pulling down on the arms around his neck. If he could wriggle out of that grip, much would be won. His assailant was flexible though, gave just the right amount of slack for him to start his thrashing, only to tense up on it again. It was like a dance, like a fisherman reeling in his catch. Tensing up, releasing, tensing up, releasing. Making him exhausted.

His breathing became labored as he tried to get a hold of his assailant’s face. He understood that he had to do something in order to escape, and his previous method had proven itself to be nothing more than an enjoyment for the man behind him. He tried to grab, claw and kick, even more furiously than before, but he didn’t scream. In that desperate battle, he decided to save his breath to make one last attempt to get loose.

He became still, as heavy as he possibly could after taking a deep breath. He would make him tired by dragging him, making him release him or maybe adjust his grip and then, he would give it his all. That was what he decided, that was his plan. His design, born out of desperation.

He waited, going totally limp in his arms. He tried to calm himself down and make his heart beat slower in order to make that breath last longer. He felt his arms dig into his throat, obstructing his windpipe slightly, but he remained determined.

Not before long, it happened. The dragging stopped, the grip got eased up and he felt the asphalt against his face. It felt warm and wet, but he kept his eyes closed, listening carefully while trying to make his breaths as invisible and shallow as possible.

“O-okay… he’s down. He’s down, so… Yes, I…”

_ Where is that accent from? _ That was the hard thing about living in the United States. It was a melting pot, people from all nations and walks of life congregated and made up something that sometimes was really hard to understand. He knew that too well himself, moving from Russia almost ten years ago. But this was no time to reminisce! He was biding his time, looking for the perfect opportunity to take him by surprise and get away.

He heard his steps grow weaker, softer, before he dared to open his eyes slightly. He wasn’t in his line of sight, making him come to the conclusion that he was probably behind him. How far away could that be? Could he get up and get away, even if he would feel faint? What if he would faint? He wasn’t sure, but he decided to try. His life depended on it.

Without making a sound, he turned his head slowly, trying to stifle a groan. He saw him, he was maybe ten paces away. He had his back against him, it looked like he was using his phone. The way the screen emitted that soft, white light made him notice that he was wearing a blue jacket, but with the hood pulled up over his head. Okay, so he wouldn’t be able to give a proper testimony but that didn’t matter. The most important thing now was a number of things, building up a sequence. He needed to get up without a sound, try to fight any dizziness, get out of that alley before being noticed and then, head for the flat. He knew that he wouldn’t stand a chance if he was to be attacked again, he had to make this one try count.

He didn’t even dare to blink as he pulled his legs underneath himself whilst pushing himself up on his arms. His head started to protest immediately. That multi-coloured confetti, that inner firework used the inside of his eyelids to paint blotches, shifting in hue and tone. His head pulsated, but he fought the nausea as he stood up.  _ Still not noticed _ . He backed away, slowly. Looking over his shoulder to avoid crashing into anything as he staggered, one step at a time.

He managed to get out of the alley, feeling jubilant and determined at the same time. He tried to orient himself and felt relieved when he noticed that he, indeed, wasn’t far away from his building. He got away.   
  


**~**~**

 

It’s strange, how focusing on one thing makes you detached from what’s going on around you. How being full of resolve makes you immune to taking in other things not directly associated to what you’re trying to accomplish. For Yuri Plisetsky, that was exactly what happened when he tried to make his body and mind work together in order to walk up the stairs, find his keys in his pocket and unlock the front door.

Taking one step at a time had never felt so daunting to him. It felt like he’d been walking for forever, or at least for an entire night, drained by every step he’d decided to take in order to get to safety. As he approached the small stairway, he could just as well have tried to climb something leading to heaven. It felt insurmountable, those eight steps. With a trembling hand, he reached for the handrail and used his arms in order to pull his legs and feet forward, upward. He stumbled immediately and hit his knee on the edge of the step.

“You’re not giving up now. Get up. Get up!” He growled at himself, tried to imbibe himself with something that would make him find that last bit of energy, that last vibrating sense of self-preservation. He clambered on to the metal, and heaved himself to his feet. The reaction to his exertion happened immediately, with him covering his mouth before deciding that hanging over the handrail would be better and less messy.

His stomach convulsed, pressing both air and contents out in repetitive cramps. He felt winded and weak, and the taste of bile and something else, maybe iron, told him that he was empty. He just had to conquer the six remaining steps.

As he climbed up his personal Mount Everest, trying his best to push with his feet and pull with his arms, he tried to remember what had happened earlier during the evening. He left work, clocking in a couple of hours worth of overtime. He bought a coffee on his way to the gym. At the gym, he’d been almost alone, starting his exercise with running five kilometres and then continuing on to work on his arms and back. In the shower, he’d been thinking about the issues he knew he had to face at home and… That’s right. He’d been spoken to. By someone with an accent he couldn’t place, someone who was shorter than him and had black hair.

_ Is… is this him? Is he the one who’s been… He’s been watching me, hasn’t he? For how long? What does he want? Wait… something about my body? What the fuck?! _

Standing in front of the locked front door, he caught his own reflection in the glass. He’d gotten a gash on his forehead, the caked blood made his hair stick to his face and he noticed that he looked swollen over his right eyebrow. He started to feel around in his right pocket of his jeans after his keys. They weren’t there. He felt around in his left pocket and felt his pulse accelerating. They weren’t there either. He knew for a fact that he hadn’t put them inside his bag. And the bag was…  _ Shit, it’s still somewhere in the street! And my phone! Shit, shit, shit! _

“I took them out.”

He raised his head when he heard the voice behind him, feeling shivers ripple along his skin. He caught a brief glance of his reflection in the glass of the front door. Blue jacket, hood over his head and… a terrifying smile.

He heard a jingle by his feet and noticed that his keys were thrown in front of him.

“Are you going to let me go in,” he asked defiantly. “Because I’m going to.”

“I’m sorry,” the voice behind him said, “I won’t let you.”

The last thing Yuri Plisetsky would ever remember before the turpentine drenched cloth was put over his nose and mouth, was a small flat in Russia and the smell of something home-made. Pirozhki? As the vapors of the solvent affected his central nervous system, incapacitating it completely and shutting down his whole body in the process, he exhaled. Keeping his green eyes open, without the ability to see.

* * *

 

He flinched. He’d drifted off again, it seemed, and something had made him come back.

When his eyes started to focus, he noticed that he was looking through a magnifying glass. He could not understand why that was. Nor could he understand what he was actually looking at. A feeling of surprise came over him when he redirected his eyes, when he started to take in his surroundings. After that moment of confusion, he understood that he was at work.

Those blackouts, they happened more often these days and had taken another expression as of late. What felt like normal reveries, small bouts of daydreams, had turned into something else, something menacing. It was strange feeling of almost waking up from a deep sleep, or rather, entering his own body after an undisclosed time of absence. He hadn’t really felt uneasy before when noticing that his brain checked out from time to time in shorter bursts, but now, he felt unsettled. It had definitely gotten worse, with him not remembering how he’d gotten from one place to another, him not being able to recall or retrace his steps during certain hours, not remembering conversations.

Thinking about it, he couldn’t really recall what he’d done that morning either. Or, he remembered waking up and taking a shower. He think he saw a small image of a memory of himself eating something for breakfast if he really concentrated. It looked as if he was still at home when he was reluctantly putting things into his mouth, but after that… nothing. And now, he was sitting there on his chair and not remembering how he got to work, what he’d done up until that moment? Needless to say, it was disconcerting.

He turned his head again and looked through the mounted magnifying glass in front of him. A painting, da Vinci’s  _ Ginevra de' Benci _ . He could remember the title and the motif which gave him some comfort. After all, he had been working on her for a while now. Strange how it was etched in his memory, when he couldn’t even remember going to work, let alone sitting down, mixing the oils and…  _ No. Please no, what… What have I done?! This, I… I can’t believe this is really happening! _

He adjusted the magnifying glass with shaking hands over the face of the female subject in a futile attempt to convince himself that he’d been mistaken. No, he wasn’t mistaken. One of her eyes were indeed green instead of brown. He looked at his palette on his desk, seeing the green hue mixed next to the light, translucent colour he’d apparently used for her skin.  _ Have I… did I do this when I was… gone? _

He got to his feet, staggering as he stood up. Like he’d seen something so frightening and unspeakable that he had to get away from it at any cost. His initial reaction was to run, strangely enough. What if anyone saw this, his perversion of the only da Vinci in the country? He would have to resign, most probably, return to Japan with nothing but shame as a constant companion. He would probably never get another job as a conservator and making a living on his own paintings, that just wouldn’t happen. He had to retrain, make another life for himself. What if he had to return home, to stay with his aging parents?

He took a deep breath, trying to make his thoughts calm down in order to think straight. Like a flock of birds, they acted. Flapping around everywhere without any obvious intention of settling down. Being one dark, and compact entity.

A small noise of torment escaped his lips, as he felt his pulse starting to race. He couldn’t believe that he’d been so distracted, so lost in himself that he never noticed that he’d almost ruined something that priceless. Of course, he had been waiting for something like this to happen for his entire life. Knowing that it was just a matter of time before he would have done something of  _ that  _ magnitude. Something that would make everyone see how unqualified he really was. And now, he’d actually done it. His inner demons had stepped out into the light and become real. He’d ruined someone else’s heart and soul, immortalised on a wooden canvas.

_ It’s okay, I-I can fix this!  _ He went over to the small desk across from his and grabbed a handful of small cloths and a few clean paintbrushes. He would have to do something about that career-threatening mistake before the new layer of oils reacted with the original layer.  _ The original layer! The one  _ da Vinci _ painted! I, oh god, please...  _ He grabbed a bottle of linseed oil and a bottle of turpentine before returning to his station, feeling a slight burn behind his eyelids. The last four months had been hell and this was the last nail in the coffin.

As he started to prepare his resuscitation of the young lady Ginevra de' Benci, he couldn’t help thinking about what had happened in Rome, almost half a year prior. He’d been working on the most important piece of his career, putting his heart and soul into the restoration of the Caravaggio. He’d gotten it done in time, ahead of time even, but he couldn’t remember feeling anything reminding him of happiness. Nor contentment. He’d gotten praise, true. Both from the public and the board of directors at  Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica, but that didn’t stick. It never did.

He focused for a second, shoved his thoughts out of the way. He put on a pair of latex gloves and mixed the oil and turpentine in a small dish before dipping a paintbrush in the mixture. He grabbed a clean cloth with his other hand and held it just underneath the eye of the defiled lady before he started to dab with the paintbrush, hoping to be successful in removing the green taint applied by his own hand.

Praise, yes. It never stuck. He remembered the reveal of Judith beheading Holofernes, back in Rome. How he’d fought with himself, forcing himself to go. How every step closer to the Galleria Nazionale had made his insides churn, how he just wanted to turn around, go back to his bohemian apartment and never lay eyes on that painting ever again. Forget all about it and what it made him feel.

He felt embarrassed thinking about how he’d been creeping along the walls of the hall. How he’d been trying to be as invisible as possible. It had worked, at least at first. He’d been a shadow, a whisper of a person standing just outside the limelight. Then, someone had paid attention to him, engaged him in conversation. Praised him with the use of words such as  _ ‘marvellous’ _ and  _ ‘ _ _ fantastic’.  _ Making him too self-conscious to even make eye contact when he was spoken to, making the praise pool off of him as a result.

_ The doctor. The blue eyed, silver haired doctor. _

His mind was a bit too fuzzy to remember all the details, he had been drinking quite a lot and he kind of wished he wouldn’t do that when he was nervous, but they had struck up a conversation anyway. Of sorts. The doctor had been the one talking, as far as he remembered it.

He’d been taken with the way the doctor saw right through him. How he managed to pinpoint his innermost thoughts and darkest secrets without any effort at all. Without even hearing him say anything, or barely anything anyway. The doctor had been delivering truth upon truth, making it seem like he was transparent, like an open book for him to read. Somehow, that had made an impact on him. Like he was someone he could trust, if only for that brief moment in time when he’d been his most vulnerable. He'd been  _ seen. Understood. _

One of his hands automatically reached for a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small box of cotton balls. He dropped some of them in the dish. Making sure that they weren’t too soaked, he removed them with the help of a pair of tweezers. Gently, in small circular motions, he started to rub the now light green iris with the cotton, catching any excess mixture with a new cloth before it started to run down her cheek.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like for you but I’m… hurting too, “he said. “I’m so sorry. This is not what your creator wanted for you.”

He tried to recall what had happened at the end of their brief conversation, between him and the doctor, but it was as if that memory was shrouded in something that made it impossible to recall. He remembered the next day, though, waking up with a horrible hangover. He  _ really _ should start drinking with moderation, and maybe not at all when feeling anxious.

The hand on his shoulder made him jump with a yelp. He thought that he was alone and the fact that he hadn't heard any footsteps, again being too deep underneath the surface of himself and his raging thoughts and emotions, made that sensation of slowly returning to the here and now so ridden with shame.

“Yuuri? Are you doing okay?”

He swung his chair around and looked straight up into the face of the chief of the conservation department at The National Gallery. His aging face looked concerned, even more so when a small frown appeared as they looked at each other.

“Yuuri?”

“Mr. Henning! I-I’m sorry, I was deep in thought!”

With a small sigh, Mr. Henning pulled out a chair from the desk closest to where he was standing. He adjusted his glasses a little before sitting down, leaning on his elbows a bit when he’d made himself comfortable. His whole demeanor screamed that he was about to deliver something he would be happier to avoid altogether.

“Is it fixed? The, uh, mishap, there?” Mr. Henning nodded at the painting of Ginevra de' Benci. “If not, take your time and make it right. I’ll wait.”

He felt his cheeks flare up, but he said nothing. He turned around in his seat and looked through his magnifying glass. Yes, the ‘mishap’ had been taken care of. He studied the original layer,  _ thoroughly _ , before coming to the conclusion that it was unharmed. The look on lady de’ Benci’s face felt extremely condescending, like she was questioning him.

“Forgive me,” he mouthed as he turned his chair around again to face his superior, bowing in his seat.

“Yuuri, you know that we were really impressed with your work in Rome with the Caravaggio. Right?”

“Y-yes.” He kept his head bent. Not only out of shame.

“Good. That’s why we offered this position to you. We have great confidence that you can take care of our Italian pieces but, I have to ask, how  _ are _ you?”

“I’m sorry, I… don’t understand what you mean.”

He felt a hand on his knee which made him look up into the auburn eyes almost hidden behind the thick rimmed glasses.

“Thing is, I have been keeping an eye on you. Not out of spite, not at all. More out of concern. Yuuri, others in the department have seen you act in a way that makes them, us, worried about you. Do you understand?”

Before he could make himself nod or shake his head, Mr. Henning continued.

“You have been acting as if you’re somewhere else. Not responding when spoken to, sitting for periods of time doing nothing, just staring out in space. Other times, you do things that seem… let’s just say they seem unconventional. Like that there.” He let go of his knee and pointed to the da Vinci. “I understand that coming from Japan to Europe and now to the US must be stressful, jumping from project to project, trying to find somewhat of a home in yet another country. I really do, and I’m worried about you and your health. Are you feeling okay? Has something happened?”

“N-no, I…” He thought about how to word things before actually saying them. Telling the truth would probably make him lose his job if that unspeakable mistake somehow wouldn’t prove to be reason enough. He decided to tip-toe around the subject to some extent. “I’m just tired, that’s all. Overworked, maybe.”

“It’s good that you’re being open about this,” Mr. Henning said, straightening up in his chair. “Have you thought about seeing someone about your health? Sounds to me like you should.”

Somehow, those words hurt more than anything he’d heard during their entire exchange. It was painfully obvious that people saw him as a problem now, something that had to be taken care of. Again, he’d proven himself to be unable, worthless. A blight, tainting what he came across.

“Tell you what, Yuuri,” Mr. Henning said whilst reaching into the pocket on the inside of his blazer, “I have been talking to an acquaintance of mine and I would like you to meet with him. He can see you tomorrow at two, so please… Go there tomorrow. He’s got a private practise, you have nothing to worry about if that sort of thing bothers you. If it doesn’t feel right, then come see me and we’ll think of something else.”

The card he was offered felt smooth to the touch. Trying not to let his emotions get the upper hand, he looked briefly at the little white rectangle. Nothing but an address printed on it in a nice-looking font, not entirely black. He couldn’t help but feeling betrayed and singled out while looking at it.

As if his face had said everything that he needed to say, completely without using words, Mr. Henning interjected. “I’m sorry if you feel like I’ve gone behind your back. That was never my intention.”

He couldn’t think of an answer, something that would validate his superior but at the same time, make himself feel better about what just had been decided without him taking an active part. Instead, something much more mundane came out of him, but still just as important. At least to him, in order to keep some kind of normality. “What… what about work tomorrow?”

“Take the rest of the week off.” Mr. Henning stood up and patted him on the shoulder. “She’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

“Thank you,” he said in a whispering tone, hearing the footsteps of his superior grow faint. Not really sure what he should be grateful for.

* * *

 

His legs couldn’t keep still. The motion was amplified by him, albeit unconsciously, having some weight the balls of his feet. It didn’t alleviate anything, those twitching movements, and especially not the hurricane that had wreaked havoc inside. He was beyond nervous, more than anxious. He felt terrified.

He’d never seen a doctor about mental issues, even though he’d been battling anxiety ever since he was a boy. Somehow, he’d hankered on. Mostly because he’d managed to develop behaviours, rituals, to make him stay clear of what was frightening him, to make them more manageable. But now, he was just moments from facing one of his biggest fears. Talking about himself, making someone else understand what was going on inside him. He didn’t have the words for that, he realised. He really didn’t know what to say, how to describe anything. He tried to think about how to explain it in his mother tongue, but realised that it was just as hard. Maybe even harder. Some things weren’t made to be spoken in Japanese.

In an attempt to divert his thoughts, he started to look around. He had placed himself in a two-seat black leather sofa, as soon as he entered the antechamber. Except for the sofa, and the obscure red glass bowl on the small table in front of him, everything was white. The small space looked clinical. Imposing even, despite its size. It felt like the walls knew every thought, heard every whisper that had been made inside that room. He couldn’t help himself but wonder how many imperfect thoughts and imperfect needs had been soaked up by those walls, originating from imperfect people such as himself. Of course, the walls wouldn’t speak. They would keep quiet, not letting anything less than an air of excellence radiate from them.

His eyes ended up resting on a door to his right. The door was white too, keeping the illusion of the room being horribly impersonal. His mind started to play a little game, revolving around the person on the other side of that door. He knew it was a he, that he’d been told by Mr. Henning, but not much else. He couldn’t help but wonder what he would be like. Judging on the look of the waiting room, he was either a perfectionist or incredibly private. He was probably stern and right to the point, maybe even brutally honest. Nothing about the room gave him the impression of its owner being warm, which made his legs start jumping again on their own accord.

It started out as a small whisper at first. After a while, the whisper grew into murmur. He had a hard time paying it any attention at first, his thoughts were somewhere else, but when the murmur grew into something steady, something more commanding, he started to listen. It was a feeling in the pit of his stomach that the voice had morphed into. It felt somewhat similar to when he’d been making mistakes with the da Vinci the day before. It wasn’t sadness, nor was it that feeling of self-blame. It was fear that fuelled the sensation in his stomach, a fear that told him to be on his guard, to maybe even get ready to run aw _ ㅡ _

With a soft click, the white door opened. Before it exposed whoever was opening it, still hidden on the other side, a voice filled up the room.

“Mr. Katsuki? Long time no see…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> da Vinci's _[Ginevra de' Benci](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/3/39/Leonardo_da_Vinci_-_Ginevra_de%27_Benci_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg/1200px-Leonardo_da_Vinci_-_Ginevra_de%27_Benci_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg)_.


	4. Animelle

He pushed the door open, having his eyes fixed in the direction of the black leather sofa. Most patients who came to visit usually sat there, with very few exceptions. A few, the ones who were too nervous or maybe even too bold, usually remained on their feet. He knew that Yuuri Katsuki wasn’t one of them, it wasn’t his personality. Even if he was nervous, angst-ridden even, he wasn’t a person who would make himself known like that, make himself stand out. 

The door revealed the black sofa, and unsurprisingly enough, there he was. It seemed like he’d been caught by surprise, his eyes were widened and the way his legs had been bobbing up and down in nervous tics ended abruptly. 

“Welcome,” he said to him, to the man with unruly black hair and glasses halfway down his nose. “Please.”

He extended his hand for him to squeeze. A handshake could say a lot about a person and although he’d guessed that Yuuri’s handshake would probably feel soft and unassertive, he was surprised. It was a firm handshake, with just enough pressure. Sure, it was warm and slightly clammy, but proper nonetheless. 

“Easy enough to find,” he asked, observing his new patient as he started to enter his study. He came to the conclusion that Yuuri Katsuki had little to no sense of fashion, seeing his slightly baggy jeans rest low on his hips. The thin, long-sleeved sweater seemed one size too big.  _ Just like in Rome.  _ He suppressed a chuckle. Most people made an effort to seem well put together when visiting him, like their clothes would act as a diversion. Like a badly executed magic trick just as amusing as a sloppy sleight of hand. He could appreciate that, the fact that he didn’t try to portray himself as anyone else. That showed that he was honest, and that was actually refreshing.

The little swiff he got from him as he almost reluctantly inched past him was pleasant. He smelled clean. He’d recently showered, probably within the hour before he left his home. The scent that first hit him was something generic, something without any kind of finesse, and it made him come to the conclusion that it was his bodywash. His perfume, on the other hand, was divine. An airy top note that quickly faded, leaving behind a pleasing richness of coffee before the sandalwood base note spread itself out without being overpowering. The perfume was a little like its wearer, standing out without intending it but claiming some, maybe unwanted, attention nevertheless. 

He closed the door behind them. Secluding them from the outside world, creating a space just for them to share. Most people took a little tour during their first visit. The ones who were nervous would at least walk towards the far end of the study where the bookcases were. The bold ones would walk up to the fireplace, standing ten paces or so in front just to look at the painting hanging above it. But not him. Not Yuuri Katsuki. He noticed that his newest patient stood turned against him, as if he was waiting.

“You, uh… You’re a psychologist?”

“No,” he corrected him, “I’m a psychiatrist. Please, take a seat.” He motioned with his hand towards the armchair he always put his patients in. He liked having them with their backs against the fireplace, in front of that painting. If the patient was dull, he had something else to study. “Please, fill that out for me.” He nodded at the clipboard placed on the small table.

He observed him as he took his place. Yuuri’s eyes weren’t travelling much, they either stayed on his hands or the floor. He wasn’t nervous, he concluded. He was anxious. But, he did was he was told and reached for the clipboard and started writing down the basic information. Name, contact information, next of kin… He put the clipboard back on the table without looking up, seemingly finding some kind of calm in resting his eyes on the floor again.

_ This will tip you off the edge. You don’t like being the focal point, do you? But you are. Oh, yes, you are. _

He sat down in front of him, in his bespoke leather armchair. When he had decided what to spend most of his days in, at least when being in that particular room, he chose leather without a second’s hesitation. He liked the feel of it, it was easily maintained. Easy to clean. As the leather made that low sound, the sound of skin being stretched, he got a fraction of a second’s worth of eye contact.

Then, he waited. Crossed his legs and leaned back a little. Studied him in silence.

That was what he loved about psychodynamic therapy. How you as a therapist could just sit and wait. Study the patient in silence until his feelings manifested in words. In all those winding associations. In fact, waiting for that first sentence coming out of the mouth of the person being opposite him was like a build, almost sexual in nature. What would he hear? What would the person portray himself as? Would he be asked to lead or was he expected to follow? Or, even better, what emotions would spill over and tell him so much more than the words ever could? Even though the initial silence rarely exceeded a minute, a minute spend being observed by someone else was enough for most people to start talking. About anything. Especially when having more of an anxious personality.

Eventually, those legs became calm. Eventually, eyes started to wander. Look for something to latch on to. His own eyes became the anchor this time, which was kind of flattering. He had hoped for it to happen. 

“I’ve never… done this before.” Yuuri’s voice was low, almost as if he was excusing himself for being there. The little pause that followed indicated that he was uncomfortable. He’d used a common opening line, it was apparent that he considered their conversation to be something he could possibly fail. He was measuring himself, wanting to exceed expectations. His own, most definitely, but he was projecting them already. 

He decided to meet him where he was, lead him by the hand a bit. “A lot of people haven’t. The concept is new to you?”

“Yes, and to be honest, it’s a little embarrassing… being forced to because of work.” 

“Hm. You feel embarrassed, you say?”

“Yes, embarrassed. I don’t know how much you were told, but I nearly ruined a painting.”

“You are here because you nearly ruined a painting? Tell me, how does that work?”

“I don’t… I actually can’t say, I don’t really know myself. I have been feeling tired as of late. Unfocused, you know?”

He gave him an affirming nod, asking him to continue. Of course, he’d heard about the downfall of the National Gallery’s newest addition to the conservatory branch on numerous occasions by their mutual acquaintance, but ruining a painting, that was new.

“Your work is starting to get affected because of how you treat yourself.”

“I-I… no, I wouldn’t say that.”

“How would you describe it?”

“I don’t know if I  _ can  _ describe it.”

“This is difficult for you, I understand that. You’re not used to talking about yourself, dressing your feelings in words. You are afraid that I will judge you. Rest assured, Yuuri, that this space is for you and me only. Everything that gets said here is ours to keep. Nothing that is being voiced in here is to be considered unimportant.” He looked at him to see how he reacted and received a small nod in return. “I have an extremely strict doctor-patient confidentiality and I would like for you to honor that as well.”

“I will.” He laughed a little. “I just realised that I don’t know what to call you. Doctor? Doctor Nikiforov?”

“Victor’s fine.”

“Victor… I hope you can be patient with me.”

Victor felt surprised by how he was expressing himself. Maybe it was his Japanese way of speaking, being self-annihilating like that. Being so  _ submissive _ . He felt interested, curious. Feeling a need, no, an urge, rather, to understand why that was. They would have interesting… talks, that was indisputable. 

“I will. I most definitely will.” Victor paused, tapped his lips a little to help him gather his thoughts. He needed to steer them away from what had started to simmer. He would get to that in due time, but he needed to pace himself. It was highly unprofessional to hurry, to not give him a chance, at least. “So,” he said as he pushed his hair back from his face, trying to divert his thoughts that had been close to entering a territory he needed them to stay out of for the time being, “where do we go from here?”

  
  


**~**~**

 

After almost an hour spent listening, intently at that, he’d had noticed quite a few things about his newest patient. Things that he found interesting. 

First of all, he was guarded. Very thorough with how to word things, once he felt more comfortable talking about himself. That was peculiar, since it was often the other way around. Seemed like his way of describing himself, standing in front of the Caravaggio months ago, was because of the alcohol. As expected. He was more vague now, not as willing to use words that previously had come to him that easily. 

Second, he seemed lucky enough to have a nurturing childhood. His parents had cared for him, been supportive and, as he had worded it, ‘loving’. Early on though, around the age of nine or so, he’d started feeling anxious. He couldn’t understand it, not remember what had set it off, but he’d been carrying an inner unrest with him ever since. 

Third, that inner unrest affected him. Negatively, on an everyday basis. It made him second-guess himself, not trust others. Also, it made him go out of his way to keep a low profile. When he was asked if it had given him any problems in life, he just laughed gloomily and looked away. It was an answer as good as any. Still, he was to be considered successful at what he was doing, meaning he had ways to cope with the anxiousness. At least, until now.

“Tell me about the painting,” Victor said after a moment’s silence. It was hard to make him talk, hard to make their conversation flow, so he decided to give Yuuri a moment to review what had happened at work. After all, that seemed to be the reason for him ending up in that chair opposite him, in his study. As a patient.

“It’s hard to explain,” Yuuri started wearily. Tensing up as he seemingly mulled the exhortation over.

“Try. There’s no right or wrong here.” Victor leaned in, just to illustrate that he wanted him to continue and give him a sense of being listened to.

“I… Let’s just say that I’ve always been good at focusing on what I do. Even though I tend to get, say, uneasy at times. Now I’m just not so… um, sure that I can anymore.”

“Something made you lose your edge when working.”

“Yes, I guess. But I can’t explain it better than that. I lose my…” He paused, sighed a little and looked away.

Again, he was careful about how to word things, not giving any clues away if he didn’t have to. He was hiding something, but that was okay. He did it out of self-preservation. Most people tended to stay a bit guarded during therapy until they had gotten a feel for how the sessions were supposed to play out. Also, patients tended to be sceptical towards the therapist initially, and who wouldn’t be? Having to open up to someone without having a relationship with that person was intimidating. In truth, having an open and uninhibited patient was more bothersome to him than having one like the fidgety, dark haired and spectacled man opposite him. It was all about patience. And that, he had infinite amounts of.

“You lose your concentration?” He considered it to be a friendly push, although he knew that he should wait. Let the answers come to him instead of chasing them. But he was interested. Wanting to go further but realising that time was running out. Internally, he laughed. He was very much aware that he was acting in a way that was dubious, that his interest in this Japanese conservator was making him do things he normally shouldn’t. Like speeding things up, pushing him for answers, breaking the mold.

“Concentration? Hm…” It seemed like he was tasting the word. Filtering it through himself, trying to see if it fit somewhere. “You… could say that. I _ ㅡ _ ”

“I’m sorry. I’ll have to stop you there.”

“I’m sorry? What?”

“We’re out of time. I’m very particular with a couple of things. Time being one. We have an hour, nothing more, nothing less.” He stood up and let his eyes sweep unnoticably over his perplexed patient.  _ Perfect. _

“Oh, I… I didn’t realise. I’m sorry. For taking up your time.”

“Don’t mention it. After all, we’re here for  _ your  _ sake, aren’t we?”

Somehow, those words made an impact. He started to look away, shift in his seat and… yes, he started to blush. How  _ becoming  _ that was.

He decided to continue, to make it seem like he had missed that little display of insecurity. “I suggest we see each other two times a week for starters. Would that be a problem?”

“I-uh… N-no, not at all. I… think I would… Oh, I have to ask you one thing though, Doctor.”

“ _ Victor.” _

“Victor.  _ When  _ would we be, uh, seeing each other?”

“Anytime you want.” He glanced at his wrist watch. Six minutes had past over the allocated time slot already, but… it was worth it. He had no patients until later in the afternoon.

“So, you can see a patient in the evenings too? It won’t be bothersome?”

He watched as Yuuri got out of his armchair, watched him as he turned and looked at the seat he’d been occupying. He was checking if he unknowingly had dropped something it seemed, and not before long, he raised his head and made a sound that sent shivers down Victor’s spine. It was a sound of… surprise? Excitement? Awe? No, it was the sound a person makes when seeing something coveted, the sound a person makes when desire rises to the surface and wants to take over. Threatening to devour in a scorching heat. 

Victor decided to answer the question before he addressed the reason the tantalising  _ ooh  _ passed through Yuuri’s lips _. _ “If the patient would prefer that, yes. My practice is connected to my home, it’s not a bother.” He huffed a little. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” 

Yuuri’s answer wasn’t immediate, but when it came, it was thick with adoration. Swelling of affection for what he was seeing. “William Bouguereau…  _ Dante and Virgil. _ It’s… it’s beautiful.” 

Yuuri left his side and walked around the leather armchair, almost scrambling in something that resembled a childish impatience, before he settled a couple of metres in front of the painting. “It’s… bigger than the original at  _ Musée d’Orsay?” _

“You have a good eye,” Victor chuckled. He walked over to his spellbound patient, making sure to stand a bit closer than he’d done when studying the Caravaggio in Rome, so close that he  _ could _ touch him if he wanted to, and continued. “It’s slightly bigger, not by much. I had this given to me a few years back. The painter was a… patient of mine. When he felt better, he insisted on painting this, give it to me and then we said our goodbyes. He was an acquaintance I’ll never forget.”

“He’s amazingly talented.” Yuuri erased the distance between him and the painting, eyes locked on it as he was seeing something otherworldly. Something divine. With bated breath, he continued. “Look at the details. The flesh being gripped by Schicci’s hand. How he bites Capocchio’s throat like that. What a rendition, I...”

“You feel self-conscious. Don’t. It has flaws, small differences that makes it not entirely true to the original work. But that doesn’t matter in the end, does it?”

“It’s still a lovely piece.”

“It is. Here,” Victor said, trying his best not to smile, not to be taken by the emotion that wanted to take over. He was hard, turned on by the fact that… yes, talking about this particular painting, together with him. It brought forth so much, brought out memories from another time. Something he felt an urge to get lost in. “See here, around the throat, the fingers digging so desperately into skin, the knee pushing its way into the lower back. You spot it now, yes?”

“I… I do. Everything’s done with more force. More blood, too. He… your patient, he’s… violent and daring. Taking liberties with the piece. Making it his own?”

“True. And yet, it’s still as riveting.”  _ Even more so. _

“It is.” 

They stood together in silent contemplation, before Victor glanced as his watch again. Soundlessly, he backed away and went over to the door, leading out to the waiting room. He opened it and stepped to the side. He cleared his throat, softly, but it was enough to get the attention of the mesmerised conservator.

He watched as Yuuri turned around with an embarrassed look on his face, and head towards the door. Towards him.

“Then… thank you.” Yuuri stopped in front of him and extended his hand. Somewhat trembling, somewhat flushed.

He squeezed his hand, looked into those brown eyes that were slightly more relaxed than an hour ago. “Art did its job this time around too, don’t you think?” He huffed a little, barely containing his amusement. His excitement. “We’ll be in touch.” 

When he closed the door behind him, he couldn’t help but smile. He had plans for him and somehow, he felt confident. He would, without a doubt, get him where he wanted him to be if he just paced himself, showed some restraint. He was closer to him now, and that was… key.

He locked the door and walked over to the clipboard, neatly placed on the small table. Yuuri Katsuki, age thirty-seven. Address. Mobile phone number. Next of kin… Strange, he had family in Japan but he excluded them on that form. That was somewhat interesting. Something to talk about.

He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the silver strands back, before he loosened his tie and started to unbutton his suit jacket. He headed for the only other door in the study, located to the far right of the Bouguereau. Walking through it, he headed straight for the kitchen with steps that echoed in the hallway, making a sound that others would probably have perceived as ominous. To him sounded like drums, accentuating a build, hinting at a crescendo in the making.

The grey suit jacket was placed on the back of a tall chair, where he stopped momentarily to remove his cufflinks and fold up the sleeves of the burgundy shirt. Burgundy was a good colour to wear when cooking, although he would probably change the shirt afterwards anyway.

Walking up to the sink, he turned the water on and washed his hands before submerging them into the salty water that filled the pot standing to the side, and fished out what soon would become dinner. The two lumps of flesh were cold to the touch as they slid out of his hands, ending up on the marble surface of the kitchen countertop with an almost inaudible squish.

“Ever since I first met you, I knew that this would be your fate.  _ Alla tua salute. _ ”

* * *

 

She was beautiful. That dark hair, those plump, red lips, that devotion in her voice… A true  _ Madonna _ . 

The chase had been going on for a while. He’d seen her, learned her routines, followed her but at a respectable distance. She was worth it, the wait. The respect. All he could think of was the agonising moments apart, the fantasy of being close to her, the need to feel her and ultimately the delight it would entail to extinguish her. 

How fitting that it would rain that evening. Seeing her hurry in a try to avoid the sky’s wrath, the lamenting tears of what was residing up above, made him feel like he’d done well. The rain cemented that fact, making her appear the way he had intended for her since the first time they met. She was indeed perfect, what he wanted for her was perfect. There was nothing standing in their way for making it so, because they would create that together. That divine revelation, that righteous apparition based on her virtue. He felt thankful for her.

He knew that the front door would not shut properly. She had shown him, time and time again, that it needed a hard shove from the inside, and now that she was in a hurry due to the downpour, she would most probably forget. That was his opening, both literally and figuratively, and he stepped inside with his blood roaring in his ears. High on adrenaline and the anticipation of what was to come.

With her back against him, she was taking off her crème coloured trench coat, holding it away from herself in a vain attempt not to get more wet. He could see her bra underneath her blouse from where he was in the shadows as the wet fabric clung to her damp skin. It was white. Wholesome. Just like her.

Suddenly, the rules of the game changed without a warning, without so much as a notice. That made him scared at first, made him think that he should retreat back through the door he just snuck through. As the seconds passed, he became more determined. More bold. More hungry. It wasn’t part of the plan, but he had a vivid imagination. He would most certainly fit  _ him _ in too, if given the time to think.

“Isabella? Hurry up here, you little slut. Bring those tits with you, I want to eat them.”

“What a welcome. Nice to see you too, JJ!” Her laugh sounded like a gathering of bells, morphing into a cacophony of caws when he understood what she found funny.

No! That was not who she was, he knew her! He knew her better than anyone else! She wasn’t an object of men’s desires, she was above them. Untouchable! Pure!  _ Perfect.  _

And that, he was going to show them. Show them his design.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William Bouguereau's [_Dante and Virgil_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dante_and_Virgil#/media/File:Dante_et_Virgile-William_Bouguereau-IMG_8283.JPG).


	5. Finanziera

He got the call early. A harsh voice telling him to ‘quit fucking around’, strange how  _ right  _ it was, and bring his ass to the address mentioned in the text. What text? The one he probably hadn’t read since he was ‘too busy with the previously mentioned activity’. He’d hung up with a sigh, bucked his one night stand that never left off himself, and headed for the shower.

That was exactly forty-seven minutes and twenty-three seconds ago.

Standing there, looking at the dead woman in the bathtub, that call was the only thing that seemed to stick. Like he wouldn’t take in how peaceful she looked underneath the surface, how her hands were tied, how her white satin nightie flowed just as magically as her hair.

“Giacometti! Hey, you into the ladies now?”

He blinked when he heard his name being called. It acted as something grounding, something that pulled him back. He tried to resist the sensation of gaining dominion over himself, his perception, but failed. And that’s when he  _ really _ saw her, the churning started immediately. He never got used to seeing dead people. Some colleagues thought it was good, that he was still human, others thought that he needed to man up. He had yet to come to terms with what was more cumbersome, being human or being a man. 

“Details, want ‘em?”

“Hit me.” He held his breath.

“Isabella Leroy, age thirty-three. Married to Jean-Jaques Leroy, her highschool sweetheart. They moved here from Canada in their early twenties. She worked in advertising, no kids. Christian background. She left her girlfriends at ten fifteen pm yesterday after an  _ after work thing _ . We checked, that holds up.”

“The husband?”

“This JJ, yes. Also thirty-three. Lawyer at this firm.” He was handed a business card. “His parents were olympians in some sport you might like, skating or what the fuck it was. He is in town, he got back yesterday after being in Seattle. Passenger lists confirm that he got on and off the plane.”

“Time?”

“He landed at seven forty-two pm.”

“Has he been home?”

“Yes, it seems like it. His bag in in the master bedroom, luggage tag still on it what I saw, not much in it though.”

“I see. Signs of struggle? Bedroom, kitchen, anything?”

“No. Nothing seems out of place.”

“But she is.” He adjusted his glasses and got down on his knees. Trying hard not to see her, although she was painfully present. Somewhat. “Coroner and forensics?”

“On their way.”

“Thanks. Oh, and I would lay low with the gay jokes if I were you. You’re a blip on my radar now. A very… doable blip.”

“Tsk. Shut it.”

He watched the responding officer leave the bathroom, and slowly turned his head. Trying hard not to look at this Isabella, whose life had been taken way before her time. To him, it sounded like an open and shut case. The husband waited for her at home, maybe jealous because of her being out on an  _ after work thing  _ when he was absent. She had shot him down, annoyed at him for him being controlling. She had changed her clothes and prepared to go to bed and _ ㅡ _

That was interesting. The husband must have waited for her in the bathroom, with the intention of drowning her. She had her nightie on, and even if there was a possibility that the husband dressed her post mortem, it was very unlikely that he had taken her out of the bathtub just to dress her and put her back in.

He got to his feet and looked around. Everything in the bathroom looked strangely perfect. Totally undisturbed. They could dust for prints, but what good would that do? Their prints would be all over every single possession, unsurprisingly.

No, the reasonable thing to do would probably be to put an APB on the husband.

He walked into the bedroom and noticed the luggage.  _ ‘Not much stuff in it, though’. _ Strange, no one would take such a big spinner if they were travelling light. Of course. The husband got home, killed his wife and took whatever he needed from his unpacked belongings and left.

He picked up his radio. “Detective Giacometti here. I want to issue an APB on a Jean-Jaques Leroy, thirty-three. 5’10, blue eyes, dark brown hair. Caucasian. The suspect was last seen getting off the seven forty-two evening flight yesterday evening. The suspect works as a lawyer at Karpisek and Sons.” He paused, and looked at some photographs on the dresser. “The suspect has a, and no, I’m not kidding, maple leaf tattoo and a tramp stamp with his name? Who the fuck  _ is  _ this guy?”

“Copy that, detective,” his radio rasped in response.

He heard footsteps come up the stairs and went out to greet the forensics team. After some exchanged brief pleasantries, he pointed to the bathroom and watched the five or so people split up with some walking down the stairs again, some entering the bathroom and some walking into the bedroom.

He sighed and took out his mobile phone. Another text from his superior, telling him to get to the station. He knew what it meant, even without it being mentioned. Another stress to add to his already fucked up work situation, even without the two murder cases he’d been put on. 

“Might as well,” he growled, and proceeded down the stairs, heading for the front door. 

He got out and closed the door behind him. He took the first couple of steps before he saw a person standing at the bottom of the stairs. He recognised the build, the clothes, the posture and let out a low, almost inaudible ‘fuck’.

“Christophe! Stop, please. No, don’t look at me like that, I’m just doing my job!”

“You’re fucking nosy, that’s what. And job? You  _ blog _ , man. That’s a hobby at best.”

“Can you tell me anything about what’s happened in there? A… lessee… Jean-Jaques and an Isabella live there. Who’s dead? The both of them? Any connections to another case?”

“Fuck it and shut it, Chulanont.” He started to walk towards his car, annoyed by the way a phone was shoved right under his nose. That guy was like a rat, always sniffing out crap and revelling in it. And for what? Blogging about dead people, making up crazy whodunit theories that strangely enough got attention.  _ A lot _ of attention.

“Come on, Chris, at least give me something! Think of my readers!”

“Listen, I… Get that thing out of my face! I don’t think of you, your readers or any of this rogue reporter bullshit you’re trying to pull. What I think of are the families of the victims that have to come across your shit online. So do us both a favor and just get the hell out of here.”

“But last time, people commented on your picture! They thought you were handsome!”

He walked over to the driver’s side and unlocked the car. Once, the banter between them had actually been somewhat amusing, meeting him every now and then had been somewhat pleasant, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Now, it was just as enjoyable as asking a family member to identify their loved one, beyond recognition after an accident.

When he grabbed the handle to the door, he heard the click of a shutter going off. That sound was attributed to nothing but misery and unfairness these days, something he wanted nothing to do with. Without a word, he got in the car and closed the door. The silence was pressing before he put the key in the ignition and turned it. He had a feeling that the car ride to the station would be the final moment of peace that day.

 

**~**~**

 

He moved quickly. Down the hall, to the left, across the seemingly never ending landscape of desks upon desks. When he reached the other side of the bustling station, he knocked on the door and waited for a reply. He thought he heard a muffled ‘come in’, and did exactly that.

His superior, a lanky man with an impressive moustache, frowned and gesticulated for him to sit down in a chair opposite the desk. He was on the phone, sounding more and more agitated with every passing second.

“I know! I told you that I fucking know, okay!

“No. No, we don’t _ ㅡ _

“I said, we don’t know if it’s The Carver but if that’s what the feds think then hell, I’ll gladly hand that headache over.

“Huh? Not yet. We need to gather up what we have first. You know what, we’ll have this discussion later, I need to _ ㅡ _

“Yes, I’m about to tell him now. Yes. Okay, great. Bye.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” he sighed as his superior hung up his phone. “I heard everything I need to know.”

“Yeah, well. What to fucking do, eh? So, the feds are coming in to take what we have on what  _ might _ be The Carver-case. I need you to write a report, make it tidy, eh, and finalise the files. We’re passing this over soon enough.”

“But boss, don’t you think we should at least _ ㅡ _ ”

“No. No, no, no, no, no. This fucking thing has been a thorn in my side for ages now. We’re dropping it. Giacometti, finalise it and just let it go. You hear?”

He felt his stomach clench. He’d been assigned to follow up on a number of murders that seemingly had no connection with each other, nor the nationally infamous Carver-case. Hearing that they would have to hand over what he’d been working on for years made his blood boil. He thought that those murders would finally make him interesting, maybe even considered for other positions but apparently, they were to give them all up. Making him convinced that he, indeed, had followed the serial killer’s steps.

“I _ ㅡ _ ”

“Good. So, what about the homicide?”

He bit his cheek. ‘Good’? What did he mean by ‘good’? He hadn’t even bothered to hear his entire reply. And if he had, his superior would have learned that he had no such intentions at all. Give away his flesh and blood? Surely, he was joking.

“The homicide? Well, seems like the husband did it. He’s missing, we think that some of his belongings are missing. Also, the victim, she… let’s just say it’s highly unlikely that she was murdered by someone unknown to her. It looked intimate in a way.”

“You put out an APB?”

“Certainly.”

“We’ll get him. He needs to come in for questioning, whether or not he’s the perp. Anyway, Chris…”

He looked at his superior. He was a man who rarely used first names, which made him cautious. He was trying to make him feel better, without a doubt. For howling at him in the wee hours of the morning, for giving away his everything, his ticket out of mediocrity. 

“Yeah?”

“Finalise the thing, okay?”

He stood up without a word and nodded. Not to give his superior his word, but rather, to bid him goodbye. But he didn’t have to know that.

He exited the office and walked over to his desk. The sight of files, boxes on top, below and around his desk was familiar. Made it feel homely, almost. Although it looked like a mess beyond compare, he had a system. One he wasn’t ready to compromise.

Almost by chance, or maybe it was divine intervention, his eyes ended up on a photograph. 

“Heh,” he chuckled, “maybe there’s still a chance.”

* * *

 

There are some people that you need to keep close. Not because you actually want them to be, but having them close makes it easier. Safer. So when detective Giacometti called, Dr. Nikiforov said yes to meeting with him without a second’s hesitation.

It was too early to eat breakfast, but he had already been up for a while. Working out, showering, reading a book after that, so when the call came, he sauntered off to the kitchen to do his deal of the bargain. Offer him a cup of coffee upon his arrival, an omelette after some of the smalltalk and, this was the good part, listen. When detective Giacometti called, he knew he would be presented with something interesting that needed his undivided attention. And giving someone undivided attention could never be done on an empty stomach, at least not successfully.

He started by picking out the beans for the coffee. He hesitated some, thinking that it might not be worth offering his breakfast company a cup of  _ Hacienda La Esmeralda _ , but then again, when would a cup of coffee made from the best beans in the world be suitable to offer anyone else than himself? Hacienda La Esmeralda, it was. After putting the  _ exact _ amount of beans for two cups of coffee in the grinder, nothing more and nothing less, he laughed. Maybe, making this particular cup of coffee could in the end open up to a more interesting conversation.

After grinding the beans and putting the granulate in his prezzo, for letting this particular coffee close to a regular coffee maker would be heresy, he boiled the water up to exactly 96 degrees centigrade. Any temperature above that would spoil the taste and the bouquet, but then again, some people didn’t seem to care what they put in their bodies after all. He, however, was very particular.

The timer was pre-set to four minutes, and in that time, he knew he could whisk up an omelette. Eggs, white wine, salt and pepper. Nothing more was needed in making it perfect, as close to one you could have in any high rated French restaurant.

The timer beeped, so he put the bowl aside and poured the coffee into relatively small cups. Not as small as the Italians would have their espresso, but not far from it. Having a small cup, or a small serving of something edible, made a person relish it more. Simple psychology.

As he focused on making the omelette, his mind strayed a little.  _ Christophe Giacometti _ . They had known each other for a while now, for years even. Giacometti’s forte was that he was good at keeping his word, and excellent at being on time. He was predictable, and that was probably why he had kept him as close as he could without feeling too annoyed. He knew Giacometti’s type, the suffering-in-silence kind of gay man, stuck in an environment where he had to watch himself. Oh, he knew his type all too well.

Getting a call from him was something that happened rarely these days, but when it did, he knew that he would gain access to information that other people of his trade would sell an arm or a leg to get their hands on. Working with law enforcement, or better yet, be called as an expert witness in a high profile case, could make any career bloom. In the case of  _ detective _ Giacometti, it was the other way around. When they met, all those years ago, it was the Swiss-born  _ officer  _ who had climbed the ranks, due to the unlikely event of them working together on a case.

Christophe Giacometti had the air of a cat but the personality of a dog. He was forever thankful for scraps given, not ever forgetting the hand that had fed him. And that was key to keeping him close. He was useful in his way of keeping his eternal gratitude alive.

Christophe Giacometti’s forte was that he was excellent at being on time, and when the doorbell rang, the omelettes were plated and waiting on the marble surface next to the stove. There was no use in calling for him to let himself in, he was well-behaved and that… yes, that was probably his strongest suite. Being on time a close second.

“Christophe,” he said as he extended his hand once he had opened the door. He was quick to do that, offer him his hand, for Christophe was a hugger and that was intrusive.

“Victor, thank you for letting me come to pick your brain a bit.”

He couldn’t stop the laugh from bursting through. Christophe was funny too, although he didn’t realise it. 

“I’m sorry? Did I say something amusing?”

“Oh, one can say that you did. No matter. Christophe, please. Let me take your coat. We’ll eat first. Oh, shoes, please.”

“Right, I’m sorry.”

He waited with the coat in his hands, waited to see if the weather outside had somehow made its way inside and onto his floor. When he noticed that the potential disturbance was contained, since the shoes were taken off and left behind where they should be, he reached for a coat hanger and put Christophe’s coat in the closet.

“Please. Come in.” He started to walk down the hallway, heading for the kitchen.

“Victor, may I ask you a question?”

“Certainly,” he replied over his shoulder.

“How do you do it?”

“How I do it?” He kept the response civil, light even, but the question was one he didn’t like to be asked.  In his mind, they weren’t that close, but it was obvious that the idea wasn’t shared between them. Christophe was indeed a dog at heart.

“Yes. I know your private practice takes time. You see patients at any time of day. Your interest for art, food… and still, your place look amazing. You look amazing. How do you do it?”

“Priorities. It’s that simple.” The obvious small talk, trying to make him relax. Christophe wanted something, but he was bad at playing the game. Thinking that they were close, drawing conclusions, trying to flatter… oh, he had no idea.

They walked into the kitchen together and he pulled out a chair, nodding to his guest to take a seat at the small circular table by the window before he presented the plates and the cups of coffee.

“Thank you. I’ve had quite the night.”

“Oh?” Christophe was strangely to the point, so he obliged. Decided to open up and let him in. Placing him in his mental patient’s chair. “Tell me all about it.”

“That’s not what I’m here for, Victor,” Christophe said, before filling his mouth with a small piece of omelette and, naturally, sighing blissfully as the flavours took over and danced on his tongue.

He waited. Any moment, now. Breaking bread with anyone builds bonds, loosens tongues. And _ ㅡ _

“But, okay. I was sent to a murder scene early this morning. Open and shut case as we see it, the husband did it. It got to me, for some reason.” He paused and laughed, a somewhat downhearted sound. “I hate seeing dead people, I really do. I makes me _ ㅡ _ ”

“ _ ㅡ _ feel mortal? Or worse yet, human?”

“Yes. People’s cruelty towards his fellow man is beyond me at times.”

“You find it hard to understand?”

“Yes. I wish I could feel jaded but it gets to me. Every single time. Oh! This coffee, it’s amazing!”

“It is,” he replied, wondering if he should drop its market price neatly into the conversation, but advised against it. After all, a dog surely couldn’t appreciate it more knowing that it cost almost $120 per pound. “Pretend it’s wine. Do you pick up on the flavors?”

“Citrusy?”

“Yes. But you missed the jasmine, the chocolate and lastly, the subtle hints of blackberry.”

“Your palate is out of this world, Victor.”

“You flatter me.” It was true though, it was extremely sensitive. Most people can with ease pick up differences between game and beef, beef and pork, pork and chicken. But so far, no one had ever managed to call him out. Him, or his cooking.

“Anyway,” Christophe finished his cup of coffee and put it down gently on the table, “I want you to look at something for me.”

“Mhm. What might that be?”

“It’s… a case we’re about to hand over to the FBI. We’re not getting anywhere although they think we should so they’re stepping in and effectively stripping us of any dignity we had left.”

Christophe stood up with a nod and walked out of the kitchen. His steps grew faint, he was walking towards the front door. When he returned, he carried with him a briefcase with a slightly bulging profile. 

“Here,” he said as he opened it and took out a few dossiers. “After our work together, I got assigned to this case. It was a few months after I became detective. It’s a complete psycho, a serial killer. Or at least, that’s what we think. We have a feeling he’s been around for some time.”

Watching the photos piling up on the table would have made any other man tremble. Graphic photos of mutilated bodies, of distinct patterns carved into their skin with an immaculate precision… Doctor Victor Nikiforov felt reborn that day, seeing that. 

“Victor.” Christophe’s green eyes gleamed with resolve, in the early morning light in that spotless kitchen. “We, no,  _ I  _ need you to help me catch him.”

He pretended to think about it. With a small frown, a bothered little sigh, taps to his lips with his index finger. But oh, he wanted to play. Hard. Relentlessly. As he was about to add just a little something to really sell his ambivalence on associating himself with yet another case, because he was indeed  _ busy _ , his eyes got caught by other photos in that open briefcase. Photos of a young blonde man, bleeding out in a bathtub whilst leaning over the edge. Photos of a dark-haired woman, dressed in a nightgown with her hair flowing ethereally around her like a crown of black silk.

“What’s this?” He pointed at the photos with his jaws clenched, to prevent a smile.

“Oh, this? She kept me up this morning and he did just that more than six weeks or so ago.”

Oh, how he wanted to play. He knew just what to do, how to do it and when to start maneuvering his opponent into a checkmate. And the best part was that he just had to sit and watch. Watch it unfurl right before his eyes with just a small push to set it in motion.

“Well then, Chris,” he said, making sure to not use his full name just to make the push so much more effective, “if you’re about to pick my brain, let me take a stab at yours first.”


	6. Dormice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see :)

Every once in a while, even an expert can be wrong. Most people, even experts, can deal with those kinds of revelations. They just shrug and accept that maybe, just maybe, they still have things to learn. That their ideas might be a little biased. That they aren’t as good at judging characters as they might have thought.

Yes, most people deal with those little surprises in a levelled sort of way. Dr. Victor Nikiforov wasn’t one of them.

On the outside, he was cool as ever. Professional even, dressed in his Brioni suit and tie, Santoni shoes, a Patek Phillippe watch peeking forth underneath his shirt cuffs. Regrettably, being professional meant sitting there with his leatherbound notebook and reservoir pen. Occasionally humming when hearing words that he found uninteresting, writing down the ones he did find interesting and, sometimes, leaning in when something he’d heard really shook his foundations.

That wasn’t the case here. Not with soft spoken, passionless, absolutely tedious Yuuri Katsuki opposite him. He just sat silent, his eyes burning holes into his notebook, for on the inside, the good doctor fumed.

He tried to remember when they first met back in Rome. That was months ago now, months of thinking about the dark-haired, bespectacled curator, of what made him tick, because in Rome, he had been… well, interesting would be a good description if not entirely true. Alluring would be more apt. There was something about him, about their first conversation that had been absolutely… fantastic. So why, for the love of God, wasn’t he showing any of those qualities now?

Hanging on to that memory felt puerile at best, like there was a possibility that this Japanese bore would deliver anything that reminded the doctor of those past, fleeting qualities he thought he’d seen. To be honest, he felt betrayed. Betrayed and absolutely livid, for in his mind, he had been fooled taking him on.

_‘There’s something about him, Doctor’_ , the respectable Mr. Henning had said, when he practically begged on his knees for him to meet the distraught curator that defiled paintings and disappeared inside himself. _‘He’s an asset for the museum so please, can’t you fit him in?’_

And here they were, a little more than two months into the therapy, meeting two times a week with the doctor hating every second of it. The change in interest for him happened around session four, maybe it was session five although he couldn’t be entirely sure, where the curator had been silent for seconds on end, only to come up with a ‘ _oh, I don’t know’_ to… every. Single. Question. So unnerving. So hopeless with taking charge, leading a conversation. And to think that his employer, poor Mr. Henning, if he only _knew_ , paid good money for him to open up but instead, the curator was wasting time for the both of them in the process. Oh, well. At least that was _not_ his problem.

Yuuri Katsuki, however, was.

The doctor snapped out of his thoughts, focused his vision a little so that he could see the pages of his notebook instead of magically looking through them. He had drawn some kind of pattern along the margins of the empty pages, kurbits maybe, whilst being occupied with his thoughts. The mere thought of the pages actually filling up was laughable at best. Words should be on those pages, not scribbly lines and shapes. Words that had the purpose of him following up quick thoughts that maybe didn’t fit in at that exact moment in time.

“So,” the doctor said, “about your parents…”

“Yes, Doctor?”

Why did the man have to look like a deer caught in the headlights? And that ‘ _Doctor’_ -thing he continued to pull despite numerous tries to make him address the doctor with his given name…

“Tell you what, Yuuri.” _Get out and don’t fucking come back next week._ “I would like to try something with you, if you don’t mind?”

“Yes, Doc _ㅡ_ ”

“Call me Victor. _Please._ ”

The doctor’s eyes left the pages of the notebook, which he closed and placed on the off-side table together with the reservoir pen, neatly placed on top.

His patients were always extremely proper, well dressed and groomed. A reflection of what he charged for a session, no doubt, and people were quick to reflect that with the help of their clothing. This particular patient however, always came in casual clothes. Tops that were slightly too big on such a slender frame, trousers that needed to be fitted or at least shortened by and inch or two. Today wasn’t an exception to that rule, with a gray, knitted sweater that just… hung on him and jeans that probably should have been thrown away last year. It was October now. Maybe Yuuri Katsuki loved routines. Maybe he simply had a bad fashion sense.

The doctor stood up and walked over to his desk, picking up a metronome. Maybe hypnotherapy wouldn’t give him anything interesting, but it would act as a nice diversion for the forty minutes that were left of the session.

“Yuuri, have you heard of hypnotherapy?” He raised his voice slightly. After all, communication is important.

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“It is a way of, hm, how to say, make a person more… _open_ to suggestions.”

“I… I don’t follow. I’m sorry.”

With an internal groan, the doctor walked over to his patient. He put the metronome on the small off-side table next to the leather armchair his patient occupied, gave it a flick and listened to the tick-tick-tick before he spoke anew.

“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, for hypnotherapy doesn’t work that way” he replied, huffing a pretended laugh, “but it’s effective to enhance a person’s perception. Makes him more focused. Simply put,” he said, hovering over his patient, “I think it’ll benefit you. I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise.”

Yuuri nodded, although hesitantly whilst picking a little at the hem of his sweater.

“Good. Hold out your hand, your left, and close your eyes, please. Listen to the metronome.”

Yuuri did what he’s told with a small frown, his hand is trembling slightly.

“I am going to touch your hand. This is just a test, Yuuri, to see how susceptible you are. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

The doctor began touching the hand of his patient, on a knuckle, on the pisiform, upper arm, then the shoulder. With every tick of the metronome, he repeated the pattern. Knuckle, pisiform, upper arm, shoulder, until he heard a sigh, barely visible sways of his body, the way Yuuri softly leans back and forth in his seat.

“Yuuri?” _Knuckle, pisiform, upper arm, shoulder._ “In two more intervals, you won’t be able to fist your hand even though you want to. The reason to this is because you listen to what I say, and in this moment, right now, that’s more important than what you want to do. Sounds fair?”

“Mhm…”

“Good. So, one more interval and then I want you to try, okay? Try to close your hand, despite me telling you that you can’t.” _Knuckle, pisiform, upper arm, shoulder._ “If you want to close your hand, you can.”

He looked at the hand of his patient, the way it slightly trembled. Nothing happens.

“Are you closing your hand right now, Yuuri?”

“I-I try to, but it doesn’t do what I want it to,” came the muted response.

“Don’t be afraid, it means that it works for you. I’m going to touch you again, and in three intervals, you will be able to. How does that sound?”

“Thank you, I… I’d like that.”

After three intervals, three intervals of touching that trembling hand following the ticks of the metronome, the doctor asked, rather casually, if his patient could close his hand and that, he did. Seeing the motion brought out a smile on the doctor’s lips. His patient had instantly gained a little renown in his eyes, for he was pliant. Just as pliant as he’d first suspected when meeting him in Rome.

“Yuuri… I only want you to listen to me now.” The small response, just a small frown, allowed him to continue. “Listen to my voice. You hear it fine, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“ _Good_. Now, I want you to listen to the metronome. Listen to its ticks. You do hear the metronome, don’t you, Yuuri?”

“Yes, it ticks.”

“Very good.” He turned on his heels and walked back to his armchair, the clacking of his heels matching the sound of the metronome. Upon sitting down, after crossing his legs, the doctor reached for his notebook again, as well as the pen. The part before the patient comes into that state, that perceptive and hyper-focused state, is something he hates. Kind of like telling children to do their chores before they can have fun. They will do it, but not because they want to. It’s a necessity to reach their goal. And it takes time.

“Yuuri, you hear me still?” he said, his voice loud and clear after a momentary pause.

“Y-yes.”

“Perfect. You’re doing so well. Now, with every tick the metronome makes, I want you to go back. Back to when you were a boy. I want you to go back to when you were nine years old.” He paused, allowed the metronome to tick-tick-tick. “Are you with your nine year old self now, Yuuri?”

“No, I…”

“Try again. Try to remember Japan when you were nine years old.”

“No, I-I mean… I think I’m inside him. I see through his eyes.”

“ _Very_ good. Tell me, where are you? Where are you and your nine year old self?”

“I’m home. Hasetsu.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

The doctor smiled a little, almost preoccupied with his thoughts racing ahead of what was taking place in his office. _I need to test him,_ he thought to himself. _Just a little before we head… deeper._

“Yuuri? Can you come back to me? To the armchair you’re in? All you have to do is to channel your focus. Can you do that?”

The doctor watched his patient sit quiet for a moment, for five ticks of the metronome before he nods.

“Yuuri,” the doctor said, “describe to me what you’re sensing right now.”

“I… I’m in an armchair. I feel,” his fingers picked a bit at the leather armrest which made the doctor clench his teeth for a second, “leather. My legs are warm against it and… I hear ticks. Yes, of the metronome. The one you started.”

“Would you say that you’re in this room? With me?"

“Yes.”

The doctor huffed a small laugh, inaudible to anyone but himself. He suddenly felt a little thankful for Mr. Henning sending this particular patient his way, and hid that exhilaration by finding that professional side of himself again. After taking a breath, he said, “Perfect. We’ve just tested your focus. It is good. So very good. I want to ask you a question. Would you mind going back to Japan again? Back to your nine year old self?”

“I can… I can do that...”

“Good. Of course you can. You know how to do it now,” the doctor says, his smile widening. “When you hear the metronome tick, you get closer until you’re finally with yourself. At the exact same place as when you left.”

This time, the doctor waited, feeling more patient than before. He waited for the small cues to become visible anew, waited until that frown became ironed out by relaxing, by a building inward focus that seemed to run over, expand inside the nooks and crannies of his patient.

Almost with bated breath, the doctor asked, “Where are you now? Tell me what you see.”

“I’m at home,” came the answer after a momentary pause. “My room, it’s… yes, it’s my childhood room.”

“What do you see?”

“The walls, they… yes, posters of paintings… da Vinci, Monet, Renoir… Oh, the Caravaggio.”

“You are in your childhood room. It has posters of classical paintings. How do you feel, seeing this?”

“Warm. I… I am reminded of that I love art. The way the sun hits The Vitruvian Man, it’s close to the door, it looks magnificent.”

“The door? Is that where you go out to the rest of the house?”

“Yes.”

“Head towards the door, Yuuri. Open it and tell me what you see.”

The cues were small at first. His patient was undoubtedly tensing up, fingers curling into the leather of the armrests, shoulders rising up, up, up towards his ears.

“Yuuri? Open the door, please.”

It seemed like the dark haired man opposite him was bracing himself, his toes seemingly curling inside his sneakers, pushing the rest of his body back into the seat of the armchair. He had his mouth open, as if he was panting. Drawing air to saturate his blood with oxygen, readying his muscles with the help of an increased blood flow.

_He’s fighting this memory,_ the doctor thought to himself, _but he’ll show me._

“You seem agitated, Yuuri. I can see that by just looking at you. You don’t want to open that door, but I need you to.”

“I-I don’t want to, I can’t!”

“This isn’t now, it’s what you’ve fought to forget. Open the door, Yuuri. Face what’s behind the door, what lurks outside your childhood bedroom. See your hand reach for the handle, be prepared to open it on my word.”

“I won’t open it! I’m too scared to―”

“Your hand is on the handle now. You feel the metal, cool against your fingertips. All it takes is for you to push it down, engage your hand, your elbow. Make those muscles do what you need them to.”

The quickened breaths, inhales too shallow and exhales too brief, filled up the room. The repeating sound became quicker, the intervals between intake and outtake of air more irregular. More short, more forced.

“You trust me, don’t you?” the doctor asked, his voice not really sounding like a question but more like a statement. He was ready to leave his armchair, if his patient were to disagree. Ready to put a hand on his patient if need be. To pull him back, to break the proverbial spell. “I’m by your side, I won’t leave. You’ll open that door, Yuuri. In three. Two. On―”

The sound of the armchair being pushed back, making a horrid, grating sound against the hardwood floor, made the doctor jump in his seat. The adrenaline that coursed through him, any human’s natural response when the fight or flight system became engaged, made his heart race out of surprise.

But in truth, the thing that surprised the good doctor more, was how quick his patient was. How he suddenly had his patient in front of his own armchair, his patient’s hand gripping and pulling his necktie, making it dig into skin on the back of his neck.

His patient’s stomach was heaving, that was all he could see from where he sat due to the sweater riding up, exposing a narrow waist with trousers hanging off the hips. How that slight-framed body invaded his personal space, how that hand holding onto his tie was crossing too many boundaries that could even be considered appropriate.

_What a wonderful surprise._

He heard a mumble of some sort from above, an angry, guttural sound that he couldn’t make out. It was too distorted, too low.

Many things could probably be said about the good doctor Nikiforov in that very moment, but scared wasn’t one of those things that would have been apt to describe him with. In fact, he had lost that ability. Maybe, he never had it in the first place. So, the good doctor replied by leaning back, by allowing his neck to pull against that hand that held on to his tie until he could catch a glimpse of the face of Yuuri Katsuki.

“What did you say?” he asked, his blue eyes looking straight up, looking for a pair of dark ones that rarely made contact with his.

This time, though, they did.

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” came the reply, sputtered off his patient’s lips before the pressure around his neck faded away, accompanied by the ticks of the metronome and heels against the floor.

After the door slammed shut, doctor Nikiforov laughed and reached for his notebook that apparently had tumbled to the floor, and made a small note in the margin.

**_Bourbon; Pappy’s_ ― _> Mr. Henning._**

He circled the words, until the ink bled through.

 

* * *

 

It would be more appropriate if evenings like this had a resemblance to a Hollywood movie. Then, rain would probably be pouring down and really accentuate the sadness and seriousness of the situation. Lighting would light up the sky, and a dreary hopelessness would be not only visible but palpable. After all, finding a body isn’t fun and games. It isn’t anything that should happen underneath a starry sky, with a crescent moon leaving a romantic promise in its wake.

But then again, reality isn’t anything like a Hollywood movie, detective Giacometti thought to himself. Reality is more often than not highly unlikely and cruel. There wasn’t any other way to describe it, the reason why he was standing in front of the Roosevelt Memorial, looking at the former president and his dog, made immortal by their bronze counterparts.

He flipped his notepad closed, and let his eyes skim the quote engraved in the stone behind the immovable pair. He couldn’t see what was written though, his mind was elsewhere. Occupied with sounds more than sights.

“This is fucked up,” he heard the first responder say to a colleague, somewhere behind him, slightly to the side. “What the flying fuck?”

And it was, indeed, just that. How else would one describe a pile of limbs placed next to a couple of statues. Arms and legs blending together in a fleshy mess, without an end and a beginning.

“Bergman,” the detective called out as he turned around, “I got it from here. Not much we can do until we ID this poor son of a bitch.”

The man named Bergman nodded and graciously took his leave, heading to his car. He was probably going to go home to his wife and kids, maybe whisper something about what he’d seen to his wife after their bedroom would have gone dark but before either one of them would have fallen asleep. Maybe, he would swear a bit, say something about doing something else for a living, drift off to sleep eventually and continue to see that godforsaken heap in his dreams. The next morning, he would get dressed and go to work, like always. Detective Giacometti knew this for a fact, for that was how he himself worked. Except for the wife-part.

He saw the coroner push past the officers guarding the perimeter, looking serious standing behind the plastic tape. Not before long, some flashes went off behind him, adding white to the red and blue that already painted the scene. Soon, the parts of this _person_ , for all victims still were, would be gathered up. Maybe, they would be buried by next of kin. The detective wondered about that. Surely, one wouldn’t buy a casket to bury a loved one in such a condition?

Then again, why not?

With his hands in the pockets of his coat, he walked to his car as he felt around for his keys. He nodded to some of the other officers as ge ducked underneath the tape, the ‘well, this wasn’t what we expected’-look, before he unlocked the door to the front seat and got in.

The silence was a godsend, but it was too brief for the sound of his mobile phone disrupted the quiet.

“Giacometti, sorry to throw you out there like that. It wasn’t really a lot to see there, was it?”

He sighed when the voice of his superior blared out of his phone, making him lower the volume a bit with two presses to the button on the side.

“Nah, it’s okay,” he said. “I was on my way back to the station anyway, so…”

“Yeah, but it’s protocol. You know?”

“Sure,” he responded, turning the key and heard his car murmur a little before it started.

“Well, this ain’t a courtesy call. The CSI-jerks took prints before you arrived. As I said, protocol with you being there despite them being done, you know, and I thought you might be thrilled to hear who they belong to.”

“Oh?” he responded, slightly absentmindedly as he put the car in reverse and made a small serpentine before he straightened the steering wheel and shifted the gears, making his car inch forward.

“Yeah, remember last month? That girl in the tub?”

“Isabella.”

His superior made a sound that sounded much like a ‘whatever’, before he continued, “Turns out, the stuff you found there next to the pooch is her husband. What’s left of him, anyway.”

Detective Giacometti pressed down the clutch and the brake, allowing the car to slowly come to a stop.

“You’re kidding me?”

“No. Seems like this is that JJ-fellow. You know what this means, right, Chris?”

Why was he always being asked questions like that? So unfathomably difficult questions?

“No,” he said simply.

“Maybe the feds taking over the Carver-case is the least of our problems now.”

Just as he was going to respond, he heard a distinct click in his ear. Then, nothing but silence.

With a sigh, he put a gear in, and coaxed his car to pick up a little speed. He allowed a couple of patrol cars pass him before he headed down the narrow gravel road to get out of the memorial park, turning his head a little as he drove past the crime scene. The statues, that of the former president and his terrier, still bathing in that red and blue with the engraved quote behind them, really stood for something. The perpetrator had some strange idea behind putting a man’s limbs up on display like that.

Driving into the impending night, something about that Roosevelt quote he thought he hadn’t read stuck to him.

_It’s not new and it’s not order._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Théodore Géricault's [Anatomical Pieces.](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f5/Anatomical_Pieces.JPG)


End file.
